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HENRY MACKENZIE, Esq. 



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COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 




NEW-YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, 

NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET. 



1836. 









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CONTENTS. 



Page. 
Memoir of Mackenzie, • • • 5 

Man of Feeling, ......... 17 

Papers from the Lounger, ....... 99 

Introduction to, and character of, Colonel Caustic, a fine gentle- 
man of the last age, somewhat severe in his remarks on the 

present, 101 

Colonel Caustic at a play; his remarks on the entertainment 

and the audience, 105 

On rural pleasures and rural contemplations ; a visit from the 

author to the country dwelling of Colonel Caustic, . . 109 
Account of the Colonel's family and occupations in the country. 

Sketch of the character of his sister, 114 

Relation of a visit at the house of Lord Grubwell, a neighbor of 

Colonel Caustic's, 118 

Qualifications of a country clergyman required by his patron, 
and his patron's family. Amiable character of the clergyman 

of Colonel Caustic's parish, 122 

Of our duty to servants. Story of Albert Bane, . . . 126 

History of Sophia M , a wife seduced by her husband, 130 

The power of corrupt society and false shame over the natural 

feelings of virtue. Story of Father Nicholas, . . . 135 
Effects of rural objects on the mind. Portrait of a country 

Dowager, 147 

Letter from Urbanus, in consequence of the late Paper on the 
effects of rural objects on the mind, giving an account of the 
rural sentiment which is cultivated at the country-seat of a 

man of fashion, 151 

Letter from Barbara Heartless, the unfortunate attendant of a 

woman of extreme sensibility and feeling, . . . . 156 
Amiable picture of a family in the country, .... 160 
Visit of John Homespun at a great house in the country, . 165 
Defence of literary studies and amusements in men of business, 170 



4 CONTENTS. 

Page, 

Man of the World, 177 

Julia de Rottbigne, 347 

Papers from the Mirror, 463 

On the intimacy of little folks with great ones, in a letter from 

John Homespun, . 465 

Account of a tradesman virtuoso, in a letter from Rebecca 

Prune— Of the villa of a Bath Toyman, .... 468 

Account of a good-hearted man, 472 

Visits of great people to their friends of an inferior rank, . 475 
The effects of religion on minds of sensibility. Story of La 

Roche, • 479 

Distresses of the families of soldiers. Story of Nancy Collins, 490 
The friendship of great ladies to little ones, in a letter from 

Elizabeth Homespun, 493 

On the moral effects of scenes of sorrow. Funeral of Maria, 497 
Effects of sentiment and sensibility on happiness, from a guar- 
dian, ..500 

Story of Louisa Venoni, 505 



MEMOIR OF HENRY MACKENZIE. 



BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 



For the biographical part of the following Memoir, we are 
chiefly indebted to a short sketch of the life of our distinguished 
contemporary, compiled from the most authentic sources, and 
prefixed to a beautiful duodecimo edition of The Man of Feeling, 
printed at Paris a few years since, We have had the further 
advantage of correcting and enlarging the statements which it 
contains, from undoubted authority. 

Henry Mackenzie, Esq. was born at Edinburgh in August 
1745, on the same day on which Prince Charles Stuart landed 
in Scotland. His father was Doctor Joshua Mackenzie, of that 
city ; and his mother, Margaret, the eldest daughter of Mr. 
Rose, of Kilravock, of a very ancient family in Nairnshire. 
After being educated at the High-School and University of 
Edinburgh, Mr. Mackenzie, by the advice of some friends of 
his father, was articled to Mr. Inglis, of Redhall, in order to 
acquire a knowledge of the business of the Exchequer, a law 
department, in which he was likely to have fewer competitors 
than in any other in Scotland. 

To this profession, although not perfectly compatible with 
that literary taste which he very early displayed, Mr, Mackenzie 
applied with due diligence ; and, in 1765, went to London, to 
study the modes of English Exchequer practice, which, as 
well as the constitution of the court, are similar in both coun- 
tries. While there, his talents induced a friend to solicit his 
remaining in London, and qualifying himself for the English 
bar. But the anxious wishes of his family that he should reside 

VOL, h \ * 



6 MEMOIR OF 

with them, and the moderation of an unambitious mind, decided 
his return to Edinburgh : and here he became, first, partner, 
and afterwards successor, to Mr. Inglis, in the office of the 
Attorney for the Crown. 

His professional labor, however, did not prevent his attach- 
ment to literary pursuits. When in London, he sketched some 
part of his first, and very popular work, The Man of Feeling, 
which was published in 1771, without his name ; and was so 
much a favorite with the public, as to become, a few years after, 
the occasion of a remarkable literary fraud. A young clergy- 
man, Mr. Eccles, of Bath, observing that this work was unac- 
companied by an author's name, laid claim to it, transcribed the 
whole in his own hand, with blottings, interlineations, and cor- 
rections ; and maintained his assumed right with such plausible 
pertinacity, that Messrs. Cadell and Strachan (Mr. Mackenzie's 
publishers) found it necessary to undeceive the public by a 
formal contradiction. This impostor was afterwards drowned 
while bathing in the river Avon. 

In a few years after this, Mr. Mackenzie published his Man 
of the World, which seems to be intended as a second part to 
The Man of Feeling. It breathes the same tone of exquisite moral 
delicacy, and of refined sensibility. In his former fiction, he 
imagined a hero constantly obedient to every emotion of his 
moral sense ; in The Man of the World, he exhibited, on the 
contrary, a person rushing headlong into guilt and ruin, and 
spreading misery all around him, by pursuing a selfish and 
sensual happiness which he expected to obtain in defiance of 
the moral sense. His next production was Julia de Roubigne, a 
novel in a series of letters. The fable is deeply interesting, and 
the letters are written with great elegance and propriety of style 

In 1776, Mr. Mackenzie was married to Miss Penuel Grant, 
daughter of Sir Ludovick Grant, of Grant, Bart., and Lady Mar- 
garet Ogilvy, by whom he has a numerous family : the eldest 
of whom Mr. Henry Joshua Mackenzie, has been called to the 
situation of a Judge of the Supreme Court of Session, with the 
unanimous approbation of his profession and his country. 

In 1777, or 1778, a society of gentlemen, of Edinburgh, were 
accustomed at there meetings to read short essays of their com- 
position, in the manner of the Spectator, and Mr, Mackenzio 



HENRY MACKENZIE. ' 

being admitted a member, after hearing several of them read, 
suggested the advantage of giving greater variety to their com- 
positions, by admitting some of a lighter kind, descriptive of 
common life and manners ; and he exhibited some specimens 
of the kind in his own writing. From this arose the Mirror* 
a well-known periodical publication, to which Mr. Mackenzie 
performed the office of editor, and was also the principal con- 
tributor. The success of the Mirror naturally led Mr. Mac- 
kenzie and his friends to undertake the Lounger, f upon the same 
plan, which was not less read, admired, and generally circulated. 

When the Royal Society of Edinburgh was instituted, Mr 
Mackenzie became one of its most active members, and he has 
occasionally enriched the volumes of its Transactions by his 
valuable communications ; particularly by an elegant tribute to 
the memory of his friend, Judge Abercromby, and a memoir on 
German Tragedy. He is one of the original members of the 
Highland Society ; and by him have been published the volumes 
of their Transactions, to which he has prefixed an account of 
the Institution and principal proceedings of the Society, and an 
interesting account of Gaelic poetry. 

In the year 1792 he was one of those literary men who 
contributed some little occasional tracts to disabuse the lower 
orders of the people, led astray at that time by the prevailing 
frenzy of the French Revolution. In 1793, he wrote the Life 
of Dr. Blacklock, at the request of his widow, prefixed to a 
quarto edition of that blind poet's works. His intimacy with 
Blacklock gave him an opportunity of knowing the habits of his 
life, the bent of his mind, and the feelings peculiar to the privation 
of sight, under which that amiable and interesting poet labored. 

The literary society of Edinburgh, in the latter part of last 
century, whose intimacy he enjoyed, is described in his Life 
of John Home, which he read to the Royal Society in 1812 and, 
as a sort of Supplement to that Life, he then added some Criti- 
cal Essays, chiefly on Dramatic Poetry, which have not been 
published. He has since contributed to the Society a curious 
Essay on Dreaming, which was heard with much interest. 

* Begun the 23d January 1779 ; ended 27th May 1780. 
f Begun 6th February 1785 ; ended 6th January J 787, 



8 MEMOIR OF 

In 1808, Mr. Mackenzie published a complete edition of his 
works, in eight volumes octavo ; including a tragedy, The 
Spanish Father, and a comedy, The White Hypocrite, which 
last was once performed at the Theatre-Royal, Covent- Garden. 
The tragedy had never been represented, in consequence of 
Mr. Garrick's opinion, that the catastrophe was of too shocking 
a kind for the modern stage ; though he owned the merit of the 
poetry, the force of some of the scenes, and the scope for fine 
action in the character of Alphonso, the leading person of the 
drama. In this edition also is given a carefully corrected copy 
of the tragedy of The Prince of Tunis, which had been repre- 
sented at Edinburgh in 1763 with great success. 

Among the prose compositions of Mr. Mackenzie, is a political 
tract, An Account of the Proceedings of the Parliament of 1784, 
which he was induced to write at the persuasion of his old 
and steady friend, Mr. Dundas, afterwards Lord Melville. It 
introduced him to the countenance and regard of Mr. Pitt, who 
revised the work with particular care and attention, and made 
several corrections in it with his own hand. Some years after, 
Mr. Mackenzie was appointed, on the recommendation of Lord 
Melville and the Right Hon. George Rose, also his particular 
friend, to the office of Comptroller of the Taxes for Scotland, 
an appointment of very considerable labor and responsibility, 
and in discharging which this fanciful and ingenious author has 
shown his power of entering into and discussing the most dry and 
complicated details, when such labor became a matter of duty. 

The time, we hope, is yet distant, when speaking of this 
author as of those with whom his genius ranks him, a biogra- 
pher may with delicacy trace his personal character and pecu- 
liarities, or record the manner in which he has discharged the 
duties of a citizen. When that hour shall arrive, we trust few 
of his own contemporaries will be left to mourn him ; but we 
can anticipate the sorrow of a later generation, when deprived 
of the wit which enlivened their hours of enjoyment, the be- 
nevolence which directed and encouraged their studies, and the 
wisdom which instructed them in their duties to society. It is 
enough to say here, that Mr. Mackenzie survives, venerable 
and venerated, as the last link of the chain which connects the 
Scottish literature of the present age with the period when; 



HENRY MACKENZIE. if 

there were giants in the land — the days of Robertson, and 
Hume, and Smith, and Home, and Clerk, and Fergusson ; and 
that the remembrance of an era so interesting could not have 
been intrusted to a sounder judgment, a more correct taste, or 
a more tenacious memory. It is much to be wished, that Mr. 
Mackenzie, taking a wider view of his earlier years than in 
the Life of Home, would place on a more permanent record 
some of the anecdotes and recollections with which he delights 
society. We are about to measure his capacity for the task by 
a singular standard, but it belongs to Mr. Mackenzie's character. 
He has, we believe, shot game of every description which 
Scotland contains (deer, and probably grouse, excepted,) on the 
very grounds at present occupied by the extensive and splendid 
streets of the New Town of Edinburgh ; has sought for hares 
and wild-ducks, where there are now palaces, churches, and 
assembly-rooms ; and has witnessed moral revolutions as sur- 
prising as this extraordinary change of local circumstances. 
These mutations in manners and in morals have been gradual 
indeed in their progress, but most important in their results, and 
they have been introduced into Scotland within the last half 
century. Every sketch of them, or of the circumstances by 
which they were produced, from the pen of so intelligent an 
observer, and whose opportunities of observation have been so 
extensive, would, however slight and detached, rival in utility 
and amusement any work of the present time. 

As an author, Mr. Mackenzie has shown talents both for 
poetry and the drama. Indeed we are of opinion, that no man 
can succeed perfectly in the line of fictitious composition, 
without most of the properties of a poet, though he may be no 
writer of verses ; but Mr. Mackenzie possesses the powers of 
melody in addition to those of poetical conception. He has 
given a beautiful specimen of legendary poetry, in two little 
Highland ballads, a style of composition which becomes fash- 
ionable from time to time, on account of its simplicity and 
pathos, and then is again laid aside, when worn out by the com- 
monplace productions of mere imitators, to whom its approved 
facility offers its chief recommendation. But it is as a Novelist 
that we are now called on to consider our author's powers ; 
and the universal and permanent popularity of his writings en- 



10 MEMOIR OF 

titles us to rank him among the most distinguished of his class. 
His works possess the rare and invaluable property of origi- 
nality, to which all other qualities are as dust in the balance ; 
and the sources to which he resorts to excite our interest, are 
rendered accessible by a path peculiarly his own. The reader's 
attention is not rivetted, as in Fielding's works, by strongly 
marked character, and the lucid evolution of a well-constructed 
fable ; or as in Smollett's novels, by broad and strong humor, 
and a decisively superior knowledge of human life in all its 
varieties ; nor, to mention authors whom Mackenzie more nearly 
resembles,, does he attain the pathetic effect which is the object 
of all three, in the same manner as Richardson, or as Sterne. 
An accumulation of circumstances, sometimes amounting to 
tediousness, a combination of minutely traced events, with an 
ample commentary on each, were thought necessary by Rich- 
ardson to excite and prepare the mind of the reader for the 
affecting scenes which he has occasionally touched with such 
force ; and without denying him his due merit, it must be al- 
lowed that he has employed preparatory volumes in accom- 
plishing what has cost Mackenzie and Sterne only a few pages, 
perhaps only a few sentences. 

On the other hand, although the two last authors have, in 
particular passages, a more strong resemblance to each other 
than those formerly named, yet there remains such essential 
points of difference between them, as must secure for Mackenzie 
the praise of originality, which we have claimed for him. It 
is needless to point out to the reader the difference between the 
general character of their writings, or how far the chaste, cor- 
rect, almost studiously decorous manner and style of the works 
of the author of The Man of Feeling, differ from the wild wit, 
and intrepid contempt at once of decency, and regularity of 
composition, which distinguish Tristram Shandy. It is not in 
the general conduct or style of their works that they in the 
slightest degree approach ; nay, no two authors in the British 
language can be more distinct. But even in the particular pas- 
sages where both had in view to excite the reader's pathetic 
sympathy, the modes resorted to are different. The pathos of 
Sterne in some degree resembles his humor, and is seldom 
attained by simple means ; a wild, fanciful, beautiful flight o£ 



HENRY MACKENZIE. 11 

thought and expression is remarkable in the former, as an ex- 
travagant, burlesque, and ludicrous strain of conception and 
language characterizes the latter. The celebrated passage, 
where the tear of the recording Angel blots the profane oath of 
Uncle Toby out of the register of heaven, a flight so poetically- 
fanciful as to be stretched to the very verge of extravagance, 
will illustrate our position. To attain his object — that is, to 
make us thoroughly sympathize with the excited state of mind 
which betrays Uncle Toby into the indecorous assertion which 
forms the groundwork of the whole — the author calls Heaven 
and Hell into the lists, and represents in a fine poetic frenzy, 
its effects on the accusing Spirit and registering Angel. Let 
this be contrasted with the fine tale of La Roche, in which 
Mackenzie has described, with such unexampled delicacy, and 
powerful effect, the sublime scene of the sorrows and resigna- 
tion of the bereaved father. This also is painted reflectively ; 
that is, the reader's sympathy is excited by the effect produced 
on one of the drama, neither angel nor devil, but a philosopher, 
whose heart remains sensitive, though his studies have misled 
his mind into the frozen regions of scepticism. To say nothing* 
of the tendency of the two passages, which will scarce, in the 
mind of the most unthinking, bear any comparison, we would 
only remark, that Mackenzie has given us a moral truth, Sterne 
a beautiful trope ; and that if the one claims the palm of supe- 
rior brilliancy of imagination, that due to nature and accuracy 
of human feeling must abide with the Scottish author. 

Yet while marking this broad and distinct difference between 
these two authors, the most celebrated certainly among those 
who are termed sentimental, it is but fair to Sterne to add, that 
although Mackenzie has rejected his license of wit, and flights 
of imagination, retrenched, in a great measure, his episodical 
digressions, and altogether banished the indecency and buf- 
foonery to which he had too frequent recourse, still their 
volumes must be accounted as belonging to the same class ; 
and amongst the thousand imitators who have pursued their 
path, we cannot recollect one English author who is entitled to 
the same honor. The foreign author?, Riccoboni and Marivaux, 
belong to the same department ; but of the former we remember: 
little ; and the latter, though full of the most delicate touches^ 



12 MEMOIR OF 

often depends for effect on the turn of phrase, and the protracted 
embarrassments of artificial gallantry, more than upon the truth 
and simplicity of nature. The Heloise and Emile partake of the 
insanity of their author, and are exaggerated, though most elo- 
quent descriptions of overwhelming passion, rather than works 
of sentiment. 

In future compositions, the author dropped even that resem- 
blance which the style of The Man of Feeling bears, in some 
particulars, to the works of Sterne ; and his country may boast,, 
that, in one instance at least, she has produced, in Mackenzie, a 
writer of pure musical Addisonian prose, which retains the quality 
of vigor, without forfeiting that of clearness and simplicity. 

We are hence led to observe, that the principal object of 
Mackenzie, in all his novels, has been to reach and sustain a 
tone of moral pathos, by representing the effect of incidents, 
whether important or trifling, upon the human mind, and espe- 
cially on those which were not only just, honorable, and intel- 
ligent, but so framed as to be responsive to those finer feelings 
to which ordinary hearts are callous. This is the direct and 
professed object of Mackenzie's first work, which is in fact no 
narrative, but a series of successive incidents, each rendered 
interesting by the mode in which they operate on the feelings 
of Harley. The attempt had been perilous in a meaner hand ; 
for, sketched by a pencil less nicely discriminating, Harley, 
instead of a being whom we love, respect, sympathize with, and 
admire, had become the mere Quixote of sentiment, an object 
of pity perhaps, but of ridicule at the same time. Against this 
the author has guarded with great skill ; and while duped and 
swindled in London, Harley neither loses our consideration as 
a man of sense and spirit, nor is subjected to that degree of 
contempt with which readers in general regard the misadven- 
tures of a novice upon town, whilst they hug themselves in 
their own superior knowledge of the world. Harley's spirited 
conduct towards an impertinent passenger in the stage-coach, 
and his start of animated indignation on listening to Edward's 
story, are skilfully thrown in, to satisfy the reader that his soft- 
ness and gentleness of temper were not allied to effeminacy ; 
and that he dared, on suitable occasions, to do all that might 
become a man. We have heard that some of Harley's feelings 



HENRY MACKENZIE. 13 

were taken from those of the author himself, when, at his first 
entrance on the dry and barbarous study of the municipal law, 
he was looking back, like Blackstone, on the land of the Muses, 
which he was condemned to leave behind him. It has also 
been said, that the fine sketch of Miss Walton was taken from 
the heiress of a family of distinction, who ranked at that time 
high in the Scottish fashionable world. But such surmises are 
little worth the .tracing; for we believe no original character was 
ever composed by any author, without the idea having been pre- 
viously suggested by something which he had observed in nature. 
The other novels of Mr. Mackenzie, although assuming a 
more regular and narrative form, are, like The Man of Feeling, 
rather the history of effects produced on the human mind by a 
series of events, than the narrative of those events themselves. 
The villany of Sindall is the tale of a heart hardened to self- 
ishness, by incessant and unlimited gratification of the external 
senses ; a contrast to that of Harley, whose mental feelings 
have acquired such an ascendancy as to render him unfit for 
the ordinary business of life. The picture of the former is so 
horrid, that we would be disposed to deny its truth, did we not 
unhappily know, that sensual indulgence, in the words of Burns, 

hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling j 

and that there never did, and never will exist, any thing perma- 
nently noble and excellent in character, which was a stranger 
to the exercise of resolute self-denial. The account of the 
victims of Sindall's arts and crimes, particularly the early 
history of the Annesleys, is exquisitely well drawn ; and, per- 
haps, the scene between the brother and sister by the pond, 
equals any part of the authors writings. Should the reader 
doubt this, he may easily make the experiment, by putting it 
into the hands of any young person of feeling and intelligence, 
and of an age so early as not to have forgotten the sports and 
passions of childhood. 

The beautiful and tragic tale of Julia de Roubigne, is of a 
very different tenor from The Man of the World ; and we have 
good authority for thinking, that it was written in some degree 
as a counter-part to the latter work. A friend of the author, 
the celebrated Lord Karnes, we believe, had represented to Mr. 
vol. i. 2 



14 MEMOIR OF 

Mackenzie, in how many poems, plays, and novels, the distress 
of the piece is made to turn upon the designing villany of some 
one of the dramatis personae. On considering his observations, 
the author undertook, as a task fit for his genius, the composi- 
tion of a story, in which the characters should be all naturally 
virtuous, and where the calamities of the catastrophe should 
arise, as frequently happens in actual life, not out of schemes 
of premeditated villany, but from the excess and over-indul- 
gence of passions and feelings, in themselves blameless, nay, 
praiseworthy, but which, encouraged to a morbid excess, and 
coming into fatal though fortuitous concourse with each other, 
lead to the most disastrous consequences. Mr. Mackenzie ex- 
ecuted his purpose ; and as the plan fell in most happily with 
the views of a writer, whose object was less to describe external 
objects, than to read a lesson on the human passions, he has 
produced one of the most heart-wringing histories that has ever 
been written. The very circumstances which palliate the errors 
of the sufferers, in whose distress we interest ourselves, point 
out to the reader that there is neither room for hope, remedy, 
nor revenge. When a Lovelace or a Sindall comes forth like 
an Evil Principle, the agent of all the misery of the scene, we 
see a chance of their artifices being detected, at least the vic- 
tims have the consciousness of innocence, the reader the stern 
hope of vengeance. But when as in Julia de Roubigne, the 
revival of mutual affection on the part of two pure and amiable 
beings, imprudently and incautiously indulged, awakens, and 
not unjustly, the jealous honor of a high-spirited husband, — 
when we see Julia precipitated into misery by her preference 
of filial duty to early love, — Savillion, by his faithful and tender 
attachment to a deserving object, — and Montauban, by a jealous 
regard to his spotless fame, — we are made aware, at the same 
time, that there is no hope of aught but the most unhappy ca- 
tastrophe. The side of each sufferer is pierced by the very 
staff on which he lent, and the natural and virtuous feelings 
which they at first most legitimately indulged, precipitate them 
into error, crimes, remorse, and misery. The cruelty to which 
Montauban is hurried, may, perhaps, be supposed to exempt 
him from our sympathy, especially in an age when such crimes; 
as that of which Julia is suspected, are usually borne by the: 



HENRY MACKENZIE. 15 

injured parties with more equanimity than her husband dis- 
plays. But the irritable habits of the time, and of his Spanish 
descent, must plead the apology of Montauban, as they are ad- 
mitted to form that of Othello. Perhaps, on the whole, Julia 
de Roubigne gives the reader too much actual pain to be so 
generally popular as the The Man of Feeling, since we have 
found its superiority to that beautiful essay on human sensibility, 
often disputed by those whose taste we are in general inclined 
to defer to. The very acute feelings which the work usually 
excites among the readers whose sympathies are liable to be 
awakened by scenes of fictitious distress, we are disposed to 
ascribe to the extreme accuracy and truth of the sentiments, as 
well as the beautiful manner in which they are expressed. 
There are few who have not, at one period of life, broken ties 
of love and friendship, secret disappointments of the heart, to 
mourn over ; and we know no book which recalls the recol- 
lection of such more severely than Julia de Roubigne. 

We return to consider the key-note, as we may term it, on 
which Mackenzie has formed his tales of fictitious woe, and 
which we have repeatedly described to be the illustration of 
the nicer and finer sensibilities of the human breast. To attain 
this point, and to place it in the strongest and most unbroken 
light, the author seems to have kept the other faculties with 
which we know him to be gifted, in careful subordination. The 
Northern Addison, who revived the art of periodical writing, 
and sketched, though with a light pencil, the follies and the 
lesser vices of his time, has showed himself a master of play- 
ful satire. The historian of the Homespun family may place 
his narrative, without fear of shame, by the side of The Vicar 
of Wakefield. Colonel Caustic and Umfraville are masterly 
conceptions of the laudator temporis acti ; and many personages 
in those papers which Mr. Mackenzie contributed to the Mirror 
and Lounger, attest with what truth, spirit, and ease, he could 
describe, assume, and sustain, a variety of characters. The 
beautiful landscape-painting which he has exhibited in many 
passages, (take, for example, that where the country-seat of the 
old Scottish lady and its accompaniments are so exquisitely 
delineated,) assures us of the accuracy and delicacy of his touch, 
in delineating the beauties of nature. 



16 MEMOIR OF HENRY MACKENZIE. 

But all these powerful talents, any single one of which might 
have sufficed to bring men of more bounded powers into notice, 
have been by Mackenzie carefully subjected to the principal 
object which he proposed to himself — the delineation of the 
human heart. Variety of character he has introduced sparingly, 
and has seldom recourse to any peculiarity of incident, availing 
himself generally of those which may be considered as common 
property to all writers of romance. His sense of the beauties 
of nature, and power of describing them, are carefully kept down, 
to use the expression of the artists ; and like the single strag- 
gling bough, which shades the face of his sleeping veteran, just 
introduced to relieve his principal object, but not to eclipse it. 
It cannot be termed an exception to this rule, though certainly 
a peculiarity of this author, that on all occasions where sylvan 
sports can be introduced, he displays an intimate familiarity 
with them, and, from personal habits, to which we have else- 
where alluded, shows a delight to dwell for an instant upon a 
favorite topic. 

Lastly, The wit which sparkles in his periodical Essays, and 
in his private conversation, shows itself but little in his Novels ; 
and although his peculiar vein of humor may be much more fre- 
quently traced, yet it is so softened down, and divested of the 
broad ludicrous, that it harmonizes with the most grave and 
affecting parts of the tale, and becomes, like the satire of Jaques, 
only a more humorous shade of melancholy. In short, Mac- 
kenzie aimed at being the historian of feeling, and has suc- 
ceeded in the object of his ambition. But as mankind are never 
contented, and as critics are certainly no exception to a rule so 
general, we could wish that, without losing or altering a line 
our author has written, he had condescended to give us, in 
addition to his stores of sentiment, — a romance on life and man- 
ners, by which, we are convinced, he would have twisted an- 
other branch of laurel into his garland. However, as Sebastian 
expresses it, 

" What has been, is unknown ; what is, appears." 
We must be proudly satisfied with what we have received, and 
happy that, in this line of composition, we can boast a living 
author, of excellence like that of Henry Mackenzie. 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 



INTRODUCTION 



My dog had made a point on a piece of fallow ground, and 
led the curate and me two or three hundred yards over that and 
some stubble adjoining, in a breathless state of expectation, on 
a burning first of September. 

It was a false point, and our labor was vain ; yet, to do Rover 
justice, (for he's an excellent dog, though I have lost his pedi- 
gree,) the fault was none of his, the birds were gone : the curate 
showed me the spot where they had lain basking, at the root of 
an old hedge. 

I stopped, and cried, hem ! The curate is fatter than I ; he 
wiped the sweat from his brow. 

There is no state where one is apter to pursue and look round 
one, than after such a disappointment. It is even so in life. 
When we have been hurrying on, impelled by some warm wish 
or other, looking neither to the righthand nor to the left, we find 
of a sudden that all our gay hopes are flown ; and the only 
slender consolation that some friend can give us, is to point 
where they were once to be found. And, lo ! if we are not of 
that combustible race, who will rather beat their heads in spite, 
than wipe their brows with the curate, we look round and say, 
with the nauseated listlessness of the King of Israel, u All is 
vanity and vexation of spirit." 

I looked round with some such grave apothegm in my mind, 
when I discovered for the first time, a venerable pile, to which 
the inclosure belonged. An air of melancholy hung about it. 
There was a languid stillness in the day, and a single crow, that 
perched on an old tree by the side of the gate, seemed to delight 
in the echo of its own croaking. 

I leaned on my gun, and looked ; but I had not breath enough 
to ask the curate a question. I observed carving on the bark 
of some of the trees ; 'twas indeed the only mark of human art 
about the place, except that some branches appeared to have 
been lopped, to give a view of the cascade, which was formed 
by a little rill at some distance. 



20 INTRODUCTION. 

Just at that instant I saw pass between the trees, a young 
lady with a book in her hand. I stood upon a stone to observe 
her ; but the curate sat him down on the grass, and leaning his 
back where I stood, told me, " That was the daughter of a 
neighboring gentleman of the name of Walton, whom he had 
seen walking there more than once. 

" Some time ago," he said, " one Harley lived there, a 
whimsical sort of a man, I am told, but I was not then in the 
cure ; though, if I had a turn for such things, I might know a 
good deal of his history, for the greatest part of it is still in my 
possession." 

" His history !" said I. "Nay, you may call it what you 
please," said the curate ; " for indeed it is no more a history than 
it is a sermon. The way I came by it was this : Some time 
ago, a grave, oddish kind of a man boarded at a farmer's in this 
parish. The country people called him the Ghost: and he 
was known by the slouch in his gait, and the length of his 
stride. I was but little acquainted with him for he never fre- 
quented any of the clubs hereabouts. Yet for all he used to 
walk a-nights, he was as gentle as a lamb at times ; for I have 
seen him playing at te-totum with the children, on the great 
stone at the door of our churchyard. 

" Soon after I was made curate, he left the parish, and went 
nobody knows whither ; and in his room was found a bundle of 
papers, which was brought to me by his landlord. I began to 
read them, but I soon grew weary of the task ; for besides that 
the hand is intolerably bad, I could never find the author in one 
strain for two chapters together ; and I do'nt believe there's a 
single syllogism from beginning to end." 

" I should be glad to see this medley," said I. " You shall 
see it now," answered the curate, " for I always take it along 
with me a shooting." " How came it so torn ?" " 'Tis excel- 
lent wadding," said the curate. This was a plea of expediency 
I was not in a condition to answer ; for I had actually in my 
pocket great part of an edition of one of the German Illustris- 
simi, for the very same purpose. We exchanged books ; and 
by that means (for the curate was a strenuous logician) we pro- 
bably saved both. 

When I returned to town, I had leisure to peruse the acqui- 
sition I had made. I found it a bundle of little episodes, put 
together without art, and of no importance on the whole, with 
something of nature, and little else in them. I was a good deal 
affected with some very trifling passages in it; and had the 

name of Marmontel, or a Richardson, been on the title page 

'tis odds that I should have wept. But, one is ashamed to be 
pleased with the works of one knows not whom. 



THE 

MAN OF FEELING 



CHAPTER XL* 

Of Bashfulness. — A Character.-— His Opinion on that Subject. 

There is some rust about every man at the beginning ; 
though in some nations (among the French, for instance) the 
ideas of the inhabitants, from climate, or what other cause you 
will, are so vivacious, so eternally on the wing, that they must, 
even in small societies, have a frequent collision ; the rust, 
therefore, will wear off the sooner ; but in Britain it often goes 
with a man to his grave ; nay, he dares not even pen a hie jacet 
to speak out for him after his death. 

" Let them rub it off by travel," said the baronet's brother, 
who was a striking instance of excellent metal, shamefully 
rusted. I had drawn my chair near his. Let me paint the 
honest old man : 'tis but one passing sentence to preserve his 
image in my mind. 

He sat in his usual attitude, with his elbow rested on his knee, 
and his fingers pressed on his cheek. His face was shaded by 
his hand ; yet it was a face that might once have been well ac- 
counted handsome ; its features were manly and striking, and 
a certain dignity resided on his eyebrows, which were the 
largest I remember to have seen. His person was tall and well 
made ; but the indolence of his nature had now inclined it to 
corpulency. 

His remarks were few, and made only to his familiar friends ; 
but they were such as the world might have heard with venera- 
tion : and his heart, uncorrupted by its ways, was ever warm in 
the cause of virtue and his friends. 

He is now forgotten and gone ! The last time I was at Sil- 
ton-hall, I saw his chair stand in its corner by the fireside ; 
there was an additional cushion on it, and it was occupied by 

* The Reader will remember, that the Editor is accountable only for scat- 
tered chapters, and fragments of chapters ; the curate must answer for the 
rest. The number at the top, when the chapter was entire, he has given a* 
it originally stood, with the title which its author had affixed to it* 



&$ THE MAN OF PEELING. 

my young lady's favorite lap-dog. I drew near unperceived, 
and pinched its ears in the bitterness of my soul ; the creature 
howled, and ran to its mistress. She did not suspect the author 
of its misfortune, but she bewailed it in the most pathetic terms ; 
and, kissing its lips, laid it gently on her lap, and covered it with 
a cambric handkerchief. I sat in my old friend's seat ; I heard 
the roar of mirth and gaiety around me ; poor Ben Silton ; I 
gave thee a tear then ; accept of one cordial drop that falls to 
thy memory now. 

" Let them rub it off by travel." — Why, it is true, said I, 
that will go far ; but then it will often happen, that in the velocity 
of a modern tour, and amidst the materials through which it is 
commonly made, the friction is so violent, that not only the rust, 
but the metal too, will be lost in the progress. 

Give me leave to correct the expression of your metaphor, 
said Mr. Silton. That is not always rust which is acquired by 
the inactivity of the body on which it preys ; such, perhaps, is 
the case with me, though indeed I was never cleared from my 
youth ; but (taking it in its first stage) it is rather an incrusta- 
tion, which Nature has given for purposes of the greatest wisdom. 

You are right, I returned; and sometimes, like certain precious 
fossils, there may be hid under it gems of the purest brilliancy. 

Nay, farther, continued Mr. Silton, there are two distinct sorts 
of what we call bashfulness ; this, the awkwardness of a booby, 
which a few steps into the world will convert into the pertness 
of a coxcomb ; that, a consciousness, which the most delicate 
feelings produce, and the most extensive knowledge cannot 
always remove. 

From the incidents I have already related, I imagine it will 
be concluded, that Harley was of the latter species of bashful 
animals ; at least, if Mr. Silton's principle be just, it may be argued 
on this side ; for the gradation of the first mentioned sort, it is cer- 
tain, he never attained. Some part of his external appearance 
was modelled from the company of those gentlemen, whom the 
antiquity of a family, now possessed of bare two hundred and 
fifty pounds a year, entitled its representative to approach. These 
indeed were not many ; great part of the property in his neigh- 
borhood being in the hands of merchants, who had got rich by 
their lawful calling abroad, and the sons of stewards, who had 
got rich by their lawful calling at home : persons so perfectly 
versed in the ceremonial of thousands, tens of thousands, and 
hundreds of thousands, (whose degrees of precedency are plainly 
demonstrable from the first page of the Complete Accomptant, 
or Young Man's best Pocket Companion,) that a bow at church 
from them, to such a man as Harley, would have made the parson 
look back into his sermon for some precept of Christian humility. 



THE MAN OP FEELING. 23 



CHAPTER XII. 

Of Worldly Interests. 

There are certain interests which the world supposes every 
man to have, and which therefore are properly enough termed 
worldly ; but the world is apt to make an erroneous estimate. 
Ignorant of the dispositions which constitute our happiness or 
misery, it brings to an undistinguished scale the means of the 
one, as connected with power, wealth, or grandeur, and of 
the other with their contraries. Philosophers and poets have 
often protested against this decision ; but their arguments have 
been despised as declamatory, or ridiculed as romantic. 

There are never wanting to a young man some grave and 
prudent friends to set him right in this particular, if he need it ; 
to watch his ideas as they arise, and point them to those objects 
which a wise man should never forget. 

Harley did not want for some monitors of this sort. He was 
frequently told of men, whose fortunes enabled them to command 
all the luxuries of life, whose fortunes were of their own acquire- 
ment ; his envy was excited by a description of their happiness, 
and his emulation by a recital of the means which had procured it. 

Harley was apt to hear those lectures with indifference ; nay, 
sometimes they got the better of his temper; and as the instances 
were not always amiable, provoked, on his part, some reflections, 
which I am persuaded his good nature would else have avoided. 

Indeed, I have observed one ingredient, somewhat necessary 
in a man's composition towards happiness, which people of feel- 
ing would do well to acquire, — a certain respect for the follies 
of mankind ; for there are so many fools, whom the opinion of 
the world entitles to regard, whom accident has placed in heights 
of which they are unworthy, that he who cannot restrain his con- 
tempt or indignation at the sight, will be too often quarrelling with 
the diposal of things to relish that share which is allotted to him- 
self. I do not mean, however, to insinuate this to have been 
the case with Harley ; on the contrary, if we might rely on his 
own testimony, the conceptions he had of pomp and grandeur 
served to endear the state which Providence had assigned him. 

He lost his father, the last surviving of his parents, as I have 
already related, when he was a boy. The good man, from a fear 
of offending, as well as from a regard to his son, had named him a 
variety of guardians ; one consequence of which was, that they 



24 *THE MAN OP FEELING. 

seldom met at all to consider the affairs of their ward ; and 
when they did meet, their opinions were so opposite, that the only 
possible method of conciliation was, the mediatory power of a 
dinner and a bottle, which commonly interrupted, not ended, the 
dispute ; and after that interruption ceased, left the consulting 
parties in a condition not very proper for adjusting it His edu- 
cation, therefore, had been but indifferently attended to; and, after 
being taken from a country school, at which he had been boarded, 
the young gentleman was suffered to be his own master in the sub- 
sequent branches of literature, with some assistance from the par- 
son of the parish, in languages and philosophy, and from the ex- 
ciseman, in arithmetic and book-keeping. One of his guardians, 
indeed, who, in his youth, had been an inhabitant of the Temple, 
set him to read Coke upon Lyttleton ; a book which is very prop- 
erly put into the hands of beginners in that science, as its sim- 
plicity is accommodated to their understandings, and its size to 
their inclination. He profited but little by the perusal ; but it 
was not without its use in the family; for his maiden aunt applied 
it commonly to the laudable purpose of pressing her rebellious 
linens to the folds she had allotted them. 

There were particularly two ways of increasing his fortune, 
which might have occurred to people of less foresight than the 
counsellors we have mentioned. One of these was, the pros- 
pect of his succeeding to an old lady, a distant relation, who 
was known to be possessed of a very large sum in the stocks ; 
but in this their hopes were disappointed ; for the young man 
was so untoward in his disposition, that, notwithstanding the 
instructions he daily received, his visits rather tended to alienate 
than gain the good-will of his kinswoman. He sometimes looked 
grave when the old lady told the jokes of her youth : he of- 
ten refused to eat when she pressed him, and was seldom or 
never provided with sugar-candy or liquorice when she was 
seized with a fit of coughing ; nay, he had once the rudeness to 
fall asleep, while she was describing the composition and virtues 
of her favorite cholic-water. In short, he accommodated him- 
self so ill to her humor, that she died, and did not leave him a 
farthing. 

The other method pointed out to him was, an endeavor to 
get a lease of some crown-lands, which lay contiguous to his 
little paternal estate. This, it was imagined, might be easily 
procured as the crown did not draw so much rent as Harley 
could afford to give, with very considerable profit to himself ; 
and the then lessee had rendered himself so obnoxious to the 
ministry, by the disposal of his vote at an election, that he could 
not expect a renewal. This, however, needed some interest 
with the great, which Harley or his father never possessed. 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 25 

His neighbor, Mr. Walton, having heard of this affair, gen- 
erously offered his assistance to accomplish it. He told him, 
that though he had long been a stranger to courtiers, yet he be- 
lieved there were some of them who might pay regard to his 
recommendation ; and that, if he thought it worth the while to 
take a London journey upon the business, he would furnish him 
with a letter of introduction to a baronet of his acquaintance, 
who had a great deal to say with the first Lord of the Treasury. 

When his friends heard of this offer, they pressed him with 
the utmost earnestness to accept of it. They did not fail to 
enumerate the many advantages which a certain degree of spirit 
and assurance gives a man who would make a figure in the 
world ; they repeated their instances of good fortune in others, 
ascribed them all to a happy forwardness of disposition ; and 
made so copious a recital of the disadvantages which attended 
the opposite weakness, that a stranger who had heard them would 
have been led to imagine, that in the British code there was some 
disqualifying statute against any citizen who should be convicted 
of — modesty. 

Harley, though he had no great relish for the attempt, yet 
could not resist the torrent of motives that assaulted him ; and 
as he needed but little preparation for his journey, a day, not 
very distant, was fixed for his departure. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

The Man of Feeling in Love. 

The day before that on which he set out, he went to take leave 
of Mr. Walton. We would conceal nothing ; there was an- 
other person of the family to whom also the visit was intended, 
on whose account, perhaps, there were some tenderer feelings 
in the bosom of Harley, than his gratitude for the friendly notice 
of that gentleman (though he was seldom deficient in that virtue) 
could inspire. Mr. Walton had a daughter, and such a daugh- 
ter ! we will attempt some description of her by and by. 

Harley's notions of the beautiful, were not always to be defined 
nor indeed such as the world would always assent to, though we 
could define them. A blush, a phrase of affability to an inferior, 
a tear at a moving tale, were to him, like the cestus of Cytherea, 
unequalled in conferring beauty. For all these, Miss Walton 
was remarkable ; but as these, like the abovementioned cestus, 

3 



26 tHE MAN OF PEELING. 

are perhaps still more powerful, when the wearer is possessed 
of some degree of beauty, commonly so called ; it happened* 
that from this cause they had more than usual power in the per- 
son of that young lady. 

She was now arrived at that period of life which takes, or is 
supposed to take, from the flippancy of girlhood those spritli- 
nesses with which some good-natured old maids oblige the world 
at threescore. She had been ushered into life (as that word is 
used in the dialect of St. James's) at seventeen, her father being 
then in Parliament, and living in London. At seventeen, there- 
fore, she had been a universal toast ; her health, now she was 
four-and-twenty, was only drank by those whonew her face at 
least. Her complexion was mellowed into a paleness, which 
certainly took from her beauty ; but agreed, at least Harley used 
to say so, with the pensive softness of her mind. Her eyes 
were of that gentle hazel color which is rather mild than pierc- 
ing ; and, except when they were lighted up by good humor, 
which was frequently the case, were supposed by the fine gen- 
tlemen to want fire. Her air and manner were elegant in the 
highest degree, and were as sure of commanding respect, as 
their mistress was far from demanding it. Her voice was in- 
expressibly soft ; it was according to that incomparable simile 
of Otway's, 

"like the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains. 

When all his little flock's at feed before him." 

The effect it had upon Harley, himself used to paint ridicu- 
lously enough ; and ascribed it to powers which few believed, 
and nobody cared for. 

Her conversation was always cheerful, but rarely witty ; and, 
without the smallest affectation of learning, had as much senti- 
ment in it as would have puzzled a Turk, upon his principles of 
female materialism, to account for. Her beneficence was 
unbounded ; indeed, the natural tenderness of her heart might 
have been argued, by the frigidity of a casuist, as detracting 
from her virtue in this respect, for her humanity was a feeling, 
not a principle ; but minds like Harley's are not very apt to 
make this distinction, and generally give our virtue credit for 
all that benevolence which is instinctive in our nature. 

As her father had for some years retired to the country, Harley 
had frequent opportunities of seeing her. He looked on her 
for some time merely with that respect and admiration which 
her appearance seemed to demand, and the opinion of others 
conferred upon her. From this cause, perhaps, and from that 
extreme sensibility of which we have taken frequent notice, 
Harley was remarkably silent in her presence. He heard her 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 27 

sentiments with peculiar attention, sometimes with looks very 
expressive of approbation, but seldom declared his opinion on 
the subject, much less made compliments to the lady on the 
justness of her remarks. 

From this very reason it was, that Miss Walton frequently 
took more particular notice of him than of other visitors, who, by 
the laws of precedency, were better entitled to it. It was a 
mode of politeness she had peculiarly studied, to bring to the 
line of that equality, which is ever necessary for the ease of our 
guests, those whose sensibility had placed them below it. 

Harley saw this ; for though he was a child in the drama of 
of the world, yet was it not altogether owing to a want of knowl- 
edge on his part ; on the contrary, the most delicate conscious- 
ness of propriety often kindled that blush which marred the 
performance of it. This raised his esteem something above 
what the most sanguine descriptions of her goodness had been 
able to do ; for certain it is, that notwithstanding the labored 
definitions which very wise men have given us of the inherent 
beauty of virtue, we are always inclined to think her handsomest 
when she condescends to smile upon ourselves. 

It would be trite to observe the easy gradation from esteem 
to love. In the bosom of Harley there scarce needed a transi- 
tion ; for there were certain seasons when his ideas were flushed 
to a degree much above their common complexion. In times 
not credulous of inspiration, we should account for this from 
some natural cause ; but we do not mean to account for it at 
all. It were sufficient to describe its effects ; but they were 
sometimes so ludicrous, as might derogate from the dignity of 
the sensations which produced them to describe. They were 
treated, indeed, as such by most of Harley's sober friends, who 
often laughed very heartily at the awkward blunders of the real 
Harley, when the different faculties, which should have prevented 
them, were entirely occupied by the ideal. In some of these 
paroxysms of fancy, Miss Walton did not fail to be introduced ; 
and the picture which had been drawn amidst the surrounding 
objects of unnoticed levity, was now singled out to be viewed 
through the medium of romantic imagination. It was improved 
of course, and esteem was a word inexpressive of the feelings 
which it excited. 



28 THE MAN OF FEELING 



CHAPTER XIV. 

He sets out on his Journey. — The Beggar and his Dog. 

He had taken leave of his aunt on the eve of his intended de- 
parture ; but the good lady's affection for her nephew interrupted 
her sleep, and, early as it was next morning when Harley came 
down stairs to set out, he found her in the parlor with a tear on 
her cheek, and her caudle-cup in her hand. She knew enough 
of physic to prescribe against going abroad of a morning with 
an empty stomach. She gave her blessing with the draught ; 
her instructions she had delivered the night before. They con- 
sisted mostly of negatives ; for London, in her idea, was so 
replete with temptations, that it needed the whole armor of her 
friendly cautions to repel their attacks. 

Peter stood at the door. We have mentioned this faithful 
fellow formerly. Harley's father had taken him up an orphan, 
and saved him from being cast on the parish ; and he had ever 
since remained in the service of him and of his son. Harley 
shook him by the hand as he passed, smiling, as if he had said, 
"I will not weep." He sprung hastily into the chaise that waited 
for him : Peter folded up the steps. "My dear master," said 
he, shaking the solitary lock that hung on either side of his head, 

"I have been told as how London is a sad place." He was 

choaked with the thought, and his benediction could not be heard ; 
but it shall be heard, honest Peter ! where these tears will add 
to its energy. 

In a few hours Harley reached the inn where he proposed 
breakfasting ; but the fulness of his heart would not suffer him 
to eat a morsel. He walked out on the road, and gaining a 
little height, stood gazing on the quarter he had left. He looked 
for his wonted prospect, his fields, his woods, and his hills ; 
they were lost in the distant clouds ! He penciled them on the 
clouds, and bade them farewell with a sigh ! 

He sat down on a large stone to take out a little pebble from 
his shoe, when he saw, at some distance, a beggar approaching 
him. He had on a loose sort of coat, mended with different 
colored rags, amongst which the blue, and the russet were pre- 
dominant. He had a short knotty stick in his hand, and on the 
top of it was stuck a ram's horn ; his knees, (though he was no 
pilgrim) had worn the stuff of his breeches ; he wore no shoes, 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 29 

and his stockings had entirely lost that part of them which would 
have covered his feet and ancles ; in his face, however, was the 
plump appearance of good humor ; he walked a good round 
pace, and a crook-legged dog trotted at his heels. 

" Our delicacies," said Harley to himself, " are fantastic ; 
they are not in nature ! that beggar walks over the sharpest of 
these stones barefooted, whilst I have lost the most delightful 
dream in the world, from the smallest of them happening to get 
into my shoe." — The beggar had by this time come up, and, 
pulling off a piece of hat, asked charity of Harley ; the dog 
began to beg too : — it was impossible to resist both ; and, in 
truth, the want of shoes and stockings had made both unneces- 
sary, for Harley had destined sixpence for him before. The 
beggar, on receiving it, poured forth blessings without number ; 
and, with a sort of smile on his countenance, said to Harley, 
" that if he wanted to have his fortune told" — Harley turned his 
eye briskly on the beggar ; it was an unpromising look for the 
subject of a prediction, and silenced the prophet immediately. 
" I would much rather learn," said Harley, " what it is in your 
power to tell me. Your trade must be an entertaining one ; sit 
down on this stone, and let me know something of your profes- 
sion ; I have often thought of turning fortuneteller for a week 
or two myself." 

" Master," replied the beggar, " I like your frankness much ; 
God knows I had the humor of plain dealing in me from a child : 
but there is no doing with it in this world ; we must live as we 
can ; and lying is, as you call it, my profession ; but I was in 
some sort forced to the trade, for I dealt once in telling truth. 

" I was a laborer, Sir, and gained as much as to make me 
live. I never laid by, indeed ; for I was reckoned a piece of a 
wag, and your wags, I take it, are seldom rich, Mr. Harley." 
" So," said Harley, " you seem to know me." " Ay, there are 
few folks in the country that I don't know something of : How 
should I tell fortunes else]" " True ; but to go on with your 
story ; you were a laborer you say, and a wag : your industry, 
I suppose, you left with your old trade ; but your humor you 
preserve to be of use to you in your new." 

" What signifies sadness, Sir ; a man grows lean on't. But I 
was brought to my idleness by degrees ; first I could not work, 
and it went against my stomach to work ever after. I was 
seized with a jail-fever at the time of the assizes being in the 
country where I lived ; for I was always curious to get ac- 
quainted with the felons, because they are commonly fellows of 
much mirth and little thought, qualities I had ever an esteem for. 
In the height of this fever, Mr. Harley, the house where I lay 
took fire, and burnt to the ground. I was carried out in that 

3* 



30 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

condition, and lay all the rest of my illness in a barn. I got the 
better of my disease, however ; but I was so weak that I spit 
blood whenever I attempted to work. I had no relation living 
that I knew of, and I never kept a friend above a week, when I 
was able to joke. I seldom remained above six months in a 
parish, so that I might have died before I had found a settlement 
in any. Thus I was forced to beg my bread, and a sorry trade 
I have found it, Mr. Harley. I told all my misfortunes truly, 
but they were seldom believed ; and the few who gave me a 
halfpenny as they passed, did it with a shake of the head, and an 
injunction not to trouble them with a long story. In short, I 
found that people don't care to give alms without some security 
for their money ; a wooden leg, or a withered arm, is a sort of 
draught upon heaven for those who choose to have their money 
placed to account there ; so I changed my plan, and, instead of 
telling my own misfortunes, began to prophesy happiness to 
others. This I found by much the better way : folks will always 
listen when the tale is their own ; and of many who say they do 
not believe in fortunetelling, I have known few on whom it had 
not a very sensible effect. I pick up the names of their ac- 
quaintance ; amours and little squabbles are easily gleaned among 
servants and neighbors ; and indeed people themselves are the 
best intelligencers in the world for our purpose : they dare not 
puzzle us for their own sakes, for every one is anxious to hear 
what they wish to believe ; and they who repeat it, to laugh at 
it when they have done, are generally more serious than their 
hearers are apt to imagine. With a tolerable good memory, 
and some share of cunning ; with the help of walking a-nights 
over heaths and church-yards ; with this, and showing the tricks 
of that there dog, whom I stole from the serjeant of a marching 
regiment, (and by the way he can steal too upon occasion,) I 
make shift to pick up a livelihood. My trade, indeed, is none 
of the honestest ; yet people are not much cheated neither, who 
give a few halfpence for a prospect of happiness, which I have 
heard some persons say is all a man can arrive at in this world. 
But I must bid you good-day, sir ; for I have three miles to 
walk before noon, to inform some boarding-school young ladies, 
whether their husbands are to be peers of the realm, or captains 
in the army : a question which I promised to answer them by 
that time." 

Harley had drawn a shilling from his pocket; but Virtue 
bade him to consider on whom he was going to bestow it. — 
Virtue held back his arm : — but a milder form, a younger sister 
of Virtue's, not so severe as Virtue, nor so serious as Pity, 
smiled upon him : his fingers lost their compression ; — nor did 
Virtue offer to catch the money as it fell. It had no sooner 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 31 

reached the ground, than the watchful cur (a trick he had been 
taught) snapped it up ; and, contrary to the most approved 
method of stewardship, delivered it immediately into the hands 
of his master. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

He makes a second expedition to the Baronet's. — The laudable ambition 
of a young man to be thought something by the world. 

We have related, in a former chapter, the little success of his 
first visit to the great man, for whom he had the introductory 
letter from Mr. Walton. Jf o people of equal sensibility, the 
influence of those trifles we mentioned on his deportment will 
not appear surprising ; but to his friends in the country, they 
could not be stated, nor would they have allowed them any place 
in the account. In some of their letters, therefore, which he 
received soon after, they expressed their surprise at his not hav- 
ing been urgent in his application, and again recommended the 
blushless assiduity of successful merit. 

He resolved to make another attempt at the baronet's ; for-* 
tified with higher notions of his own dignity, and with less appre^ 
hension of repulse. In his way to Grosvenor-square, he began 
to ruminate on the folly of mankind, who affix those ideas of 
superiority to riches, which reduce the minds of men, by nature 
equal with the more fortunate, to that sort of servility which he 
felt in his own. By the time he had reached the Square, and 
was walking along the pavement which led to the baronet's, he 
had brought his reasoning on the subject to such a point, that 
the conclusion, by every rule of logic, should have led him to 
a thorough indifference in his approaches to a fellow-mortal, 
whether that fellow-mortal was possessed of six, or six thousand 
pounds a year. It is probable, however, that the premises had 
been improperly formed : for it is certain, that when he ap-? 
proached the great man's door, he felt his heart agitated by an 
unusual pulsation. 

He had almost reached it, when he observed a young gentle- 
man coming out, dressed in a white frock, and a red laced 
waistcoat, with a small switch in his hand, which he seemed 
to manage with a particular good grace. As he passed him on 
the steps, the stranger very politely made him a bow, which 



32 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

Harley returned, though he could not remember ever having 
seen him before. He asked Harley, in the same civil manner, 
if he was going to wait on his friend the Baronet ? " for I was 
just calling," said he, " and am sorry to find that he is gone for 
some days into the country." 

Harley thanked him for his information ; and was turning 
from the door, when the other observed that it would be proper 
to leave his name, and very obligingly knocked for that purpose. 
' "Here is a gentleman, Tom, who meant to have waited on 
your master." " Your name, if you please, Sir'?" " Harley." 
" You'll remember, Tom, Harley." The door was shut. " Since 
we are here," said he, " we shall not lose our walk, if we add a 
little to it by a turn or two in Hydepark." He accompanied 
this proposal with a second bow, and Harley accepted of it by 
another in return. 

The conversation, as they walked, was brilliant on the side 
of his companion. The playhouse, the opera, with every oc- 
currence in high life, he seemed perfectly master of; and talked 
of some reigning beauties of quality, in a manner the most feeling 
in the world. Harley admired the happiness of his vivacity ; and, 
opposite as it was to the reserve of his own nature, began to be 
much pleased with its effects. 

Though I am not of opinion with some wise men, that the ex- 
istence of objects depends on idea ; yet, I am convinced, that 
their appearance is not a little influenced by it. The optics of 
some minds are so unhappily constructed, as to throw a certain 
shade on every picture that is presented to them ; while those 
of others, (of which number was Harley,) like the mirrors of 
the ladies, have a wonderful effect in bettering their complex- 
ions. Through such a medium, perhaps, he was looking on his 
present companion. 

When they had finished their walk, and were returning by the 
corner of the Park, they observed a board hung out of a win- 
dow, signifying, " an excellent ordinary on Saturdays and Sun- 
days." It happened to be Saturday, and the table was covered. 
44 What if we should go in and dine here, if you happen not to 
be engaged, Sir?" said the young gentleman. "It is not im- 
possible but we shall meet with some original or other ; it is a 
sort of humor I like hugely." Harley made no objection ; and 
the stranger showed him the way into the parlor. 

He was placed, by the courtesy of his introductor, in an arm- 
chair that stood at one side of the fire. Over against was seated 
a man of a grave considering aspect, with that look of sober pru- 
dence which indicates what is commonly called a warm man. He 
wore a pretty large wig, which had once been white, but was now 
of a brownish yellow ; his coat was one of those modest colored 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 33 

drabs which mock the injuries of dust and dirt ; two jack-boots 
concealed, in part, the well-mended knees of an old pair of 
buckskin breeches, while the spotted handkerchief round his 
neck, preserved at once its owner from catching cold, and his 
neckcloth from being dirtied. Next him sat another man, with 
a tankard in his hand, and a quid of tobacco in his cheek, 
whose eye was rather more vivacious, and whose dress was 
something smarter. 

The first mentioned gentleman took notice, that the room had 
been so lately washed, as not to have had time to dry ; and re-> 
marked, that wet lodging was unwholesome for man or beast. 
He looked round, at the same time, for a poker to stir the fire 
with, which, he at last observed to the company, the people of 
the house had removed, in order to save their coals. The diffi- 
culty, however, he overcame, by the help of Harley's stick, saying, 
" that as they should, no doubt, pay for their fire in some shape 
or other, he saw no reason why they should not have the use of 
it while they sat." 

The door was now openecRbr the admission of dinner. " I 
don't know how it is with you, gentlemen," said Harley's new 
acquaintance ; " but I am afraid I shall not be able to get down 
a morsel at this horrid mechanical hour of dining." He sat 
down, however, and did not show any want of appetite by his 
eating. He took upon him the carving of the meat, and criti- 
cised on the goodness of the pudding. 

When the table-cloth was removed, he proposed calling for 
some punch, which was readily agreed to ; he seemed at first 
inclined to make it himself, but afterwards changed his mind, 
and left that province to the waiter, telling him to have it pure 
West Indian, or he could not taste a drop of it. 

When the punch was brought, he undertook to fill the glasses, 
and call the toasts. — " The King." — The toast naturally pro- 
duced politics. It is the privilege of Englishmen to drink the 
king's health, and to talk of his conduct. The man who sat 
opposite to Harley (and who by this time, partly from himself, 
and partly from his acquaintance on his left hand, was discovered 
to be a grazier) observed, " that it was a shame for so many 
pensioners to be allowed to take the bread out of the mouth of 
the poor." " Ay, and provisions," said his friend, " were never 
so dear in the memory of man ; I wish the king and his coun- 
sellors would look to that." " As for the matter of provisions, 
neighbor Wrightson," he replied, " I am sure the prices of cat- 
tle" — A dispute would have probably ensued, but it was pre- 
vented by the spruce toast-master, who gave a sentiment ; anc[ 
turning to the two politicians, " Pray, gentlemen," said he, " let. 
us have done with these musty politics : I would always leave* 



34 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

them to the beer-suckers in Butcher-row.* Come, let us hare 
something of the fine arts. That was a damn'd hard match be- 
tween the Nailor and Tim Bucket. The knowing ones were 
cursedly taken in there ! 1 lost a cool hundred myself, faith." 

At mention of the cool hundred, the grazier threw his eyes 
aslant, with a mingled look of doubt and surprise ; while the man 
at his elbow looked arch, and gave a short emphatical sort of 
cough. 

Both seemed to be silenced, however, by this intelligence ; 
and, while the remainder of the punch lasted, the conversation 
was wholly engrossed by the gentleman with the fine waistcoat, 
who told a great many " immense comical stories," and " con- 
founded smart things," as he termed them, acted and spoken by 
lords, ladies, and young bucks of quality, of his acquaintance. 
At last, the grazier, pulling out a watch of a very unusual size, 
and telling the hour, said, that he had an appointment. " Is it 
so late 1" said the young gentleman ; " then I am afraid I have 
missed an appointment already ; but the truth is, I am cursedly 
given to missing of appointments^" 

When the grazier and he were gone, Harley turned to the 
remaining personage, and asked him, if he knew that young gen- 
tleman ? "A gentleman ?" said he ; " ay, he is one of your 
gentlemen, at the top of an affidavit. I knew him, some years 
ago, in the quality of a footman ; and, I believe, he had some- 
times the honor to be a pimp. At last, some of the great folks, 
to whom he had been serviceable in both capacities, had him 
made a gauger ; in which station he remains, and has the assur- 
ance to pretend an acquaintance with men of quality. The im- 
pudent dog ! with a few shillings in his pocket, he will talk you 
three times as much as my friend Mundy there, who is worth 
nine thousand, if he's worth a farthing. But I know the rascal, 
and despise him as he deserves." 

Harley began to despise him too, and to conceive some indig- 
nation at having sat with patience to hear such a fellow speak 
nonsense. But he corrected himself, by reflecting, that he was 
perhaps as well entertained, and instructed too, by this same 
modest gauger, as he should have been by such a man as he had 
thought proper to personate. And surely the fault may more 
properly be imputed to that rank where the futility is real, than 
where it is feigned ; to that rank, whose opportunities for nobler 
accomplishments have only served to rear a fabric of folly, which 
the untutored hand of affectation, even among the meanest of 
mankind, can imitate with success. 

* It may be necessary to inform readers of the present day, that the 
noted political debating society, called the Robiyihood, was held at a house 
in Butcher-row. 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 35 

CHAPTER XX. 

He visits Bedlam. — The Distresses of a Daughter. 

Op those things called Sights in London, which every stranger 
is supposed desirous to see, Bedlam is one. To that place, 
therefore, an acquaintance of Harley's, after having accompanied 
him to several other shows, proposed a visit. Harley objected 
to it, " because," said he, " I think it an inhuman practice to 
expose the greatest misery with which our nature is afflicted, to 
every idle visitant, who can afford a trifling perquisite to the 
keeper ; especially as it is a distress which the humane must see 
with the painful reflection, that it is not in their power to alle- 
viate it." He was overpowered, however, by the solicitations 
of his friend and the other persons of the- party, (amongst whom 
were several ladies ;) and they went in a body to Moorfields. 

Their conductor led them first to the dismal mansions of those 
who are in the most horrid state of incurable madness. The- 
clanking of chains, the wildness of their cries, and the impreca- 
tions which some of them uttered, formed a scene inexpressibly 
shocking. Harley and his companions, especially the female 
part of them, begged their guide to return : he seemed surprised 
at their uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevailed on to leave- 
that part of the house without showing them some others ; who, 
as he expressed it, in the phrase of those who keep wild beasts 
for show, were much better worth seeing than any they had 
passed, being ten times more fierce and unmanageable. 

He led them next to that quarter where those reside, who, as 
they are not dangerous to themselves or others, enjoy a certain, 
degree of freedom, according to the state of their distemper. 

Harley had fallen behind his companions, looking at a man; 
who was making pendulums with bits of thread, and little balls 
of clay. He had delineated a segment of a circle on the wall 
with chalk, and marked their different vibrations, by intersecting 
it with cross lines. A decent looking man came up, and smiling 
at the maniac, turned to Harley, and told him, that gentleman 
had once been a very celebrated mathematician. " He fell a 
sacrifice," said he, " to the theory of comets ; for having, with 
infinite labor, formed a table on the conjectures of Sir Isaac 
Newton, he was disappointed in the return of one of those lumi- 
naries, and was very soon after obliged to be placed here by hia 
friends. If you please to follow me, Sir," continued the stranger* 
** I believe I shall be able to give you a more satisfactory acn 



36 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

count of the unfortunate people you see here, than the man who 
attends your companions." Harley bowed and accepted the 
offer. 

The next person they came up to had scrawled a variety of 
figures on a piece of slate. Harley had the curiosity to take a 
nearer view of them. They consisted of different columns, on 
the top of which were marked South Sea annuities, India stock, 
and Three per cent, annuities consol. " This," said Harley's 
instructer, " was a gentleman well known in Change-alley. He 
was once worth fifty thousand pounds, and had actually agreed 
for the purchase of an estate in the West, in order to realize his 
money ; but he quarrelled with the proprietor about the repairs 
of the garden- wall, and so returned to town to follow his old 
trade of stock-jobbing a little longer ; when an unlucky fluctua- 
tion of stock, in which he was engaged to an immense extent, 
reduced him at once to poverty and to madness. Poor wretch ! 
he told me t'other day, that against the next payment of differ- 
ences, he should be some hundreds above a plum." " It is a 
spondee, and I will maintain it," interrupted a voice on his left 
hand. This assertion was followed by a very rapid recital of 
some verses from Homer. " That figure," said the gentleman, 
" whose clothes are so bedaubed with snuff, was a schoolmaster 
of some reputation : he came hither to be resolved of some 
doubts he entertained concerning the genuine pronunciation of 
the Greek vowels. In his highest fits, he makes frequent men- 
tion of one Mr. Bentley. 

" But delusive ideas, Sir, are the motives of the greatest part 
of mankind, and a heated imagination the power by which their 
actions are incited : the world, in the eye of a philosopher, may 
be said to be a large madhouse." " It is true," answered Har- 
ley, " the passions of men are temporary madness ; and some- 
times very fatal in their effects, 

" From Macedonia's madman to the Swede." 

" It was, indeed," said the stranger, " a very mad thing in 
Charles, to think of adding so vast a country as Russia to his 
dominions ; that would have been fatal indeed ; the balance of 
the North would then have been lost ; but the Sultan and I 
would never have allowed it." — " Sir !" said Harley, with no 
small surprise on his countenance. " Why, yes," answered the 
other, " the Sultan and I ; do you know mel I am the Chan 
of Tartary." 

Harley was a good deal struck by this discovery ; he had pru- 
dence enough, however, to conceal his amazement, and, bowing 
as low to the monarch as his dignity required, left him imme- 
diately, and joined his companions. 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 37 

He found them in a quarter of the house set apart for the in- 
sane of the other sex, several of whom had gathered about the 
female visiters, and were examining, with rather more accuracy 
than might have been expected, the particulars of their dress. 

Separate from the rest stood one, whose appearance had 
something of superior dignity. Her face, though pale and wasted, 
was less squalid than those of the others, and showed a dejec- 
tion of that decent kind, which moves our pity unmixed with 
horror : upon her, therefore, the eyes of all were immediately 
turned. The keeper, who accompanied them, observed it : 
" This," said he, " is a young lady, who was born to ride in her 
coach and six. She was beloved, if the story I have heard be 
true, by a young gentleman, her equal in birth, though by no 
means her match in fortune : but love, they say, is blind, and 
so she fancied him as much as he did her. Her father, it seems, 
would not hear of their marriage, and threatened to turn her out 
of doors, if ever she saw him again. Upon this, the young gen- 
tleman took a voyage to the West Indies, in hopes of bettering 
his fortune, and obtaining his mistress ; but he was scarce landed, 
when he was seized with one of the fevers, which are common 
in those islands, and died in a few days, lamented by every one 
that knew him. This news soon reached his mistress, who was 
at the same time pressed by her father to marry a rich miserly 
fellow, who was old enough to be her grandfather. The death 
of her lover had no effect on her inhuman parent : he was only 
the more earnest for her marriage with the man he had provided 
for her ; and what between her despair at the death of the one, 
and her aversion to the other, the poor young lady was reduced 
to the condition you see her in. But God would not prosper 
such cruelty : her father's affairs soon after went to wreck, and 
he died almost a beggar." 

Though this story was told in very plain language, it had par- 
ticularly attracted Harley's notice ; he had given it the tribute 
of some tears. The unfortunate young lady had, till now, seemed 
entranced in thought, with her eyes fixed on a little garnet ring 
she wore on her finger : she turned them now upon Harley. 
" My Billy is no more !" said she ; " Do you weep for my Billy ] 
Blessings on your tears ! I would weep too, but my brain is dry; 
and it burns, it burns, it burns !" She drew nearer to Karley. 
" Be comforted, young lady," said he, "your Billy is in heaven." 
" Is he, indeed '{ and shall we meet again? and shall that fright- 
ful man (pointing to the keeper) not be there 1 Alas ! I am 
grown naughty of late ; I have almost forgotten to think of 
heaven : yet I pray sometimes ; when I can, I pray, and some- 
times I sing ; when I am saddest, I sing. You shall hear me 
—hush ! 



dS THE MAN OF FEELING. 

" Light be the earth on Billy's breast, 
And green the sod that wraps his grave." 

There was a plaintive wildness in the air not to be withstood ; 
and, except the keeper's, there was not an unmoistened eye 
around her. 

"Do you weep again?" said she; "I would not have you 
weep. You are like my Billy : you are, believe me ; just so he 
looked, when he gave me this ring ; poor Billy ! 'twas the last 
time ever we met ! 

" 'Twas when the seas were roaring" — 

" I love you for resembling my Billy ; but I shall never love 
any man like him." She stretched out her hand to Harley ; he 
pressed it between both of his, and bathed it with his tears. 
" Nay, that is Billy's ring," said she, " you cannot have it, in- 
deed ; but here is another, look here, which I plated, to-day, of 
some gold-thread from this bit of stuff; will you keep it for my 
sake 1 I am a strange girl ; but my heart is harmless : my 
poor heart ! it will burst some day ; feel how it beats !" She 
pressed his hand to her bosom, then holding her head in the atti- 
tude of listening, — " Hark ! one, two, three ! be quiet, thou little 
trembler ; my Billy's is cold ! — but I had forgotten the ring." 
She put it on his finger. " Farewell ! I must leave you now." 
She would have withdrawn her hand ; Harley held it to his lips. 
" I dare not stay longer ; my head throbs sadly : farewell !" 
She walked with a hurried step to a little apartment at some dis- 
tance. Harley stood fixed in astonishment and pity ; his friend 
gave money to the keeper. Harley looked on his ring. He 
put a couple of guineas into the man's hand : — ** Be kind to that 
unfortunate." He burst into tears, and left them. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

The Misanthrope. 

The friend, who had conducted him to Moorfields, called 
upon him again the next evening. After some talk on the ad- 
ventures of the preceding day, " I carried you yesterday," said 
he to Harley, " to visit the mad ; let me introduce you to-night, 
at supper, to one of the wise : but you must not look for any 
thing of the Socratic pleasantry about him ; on the contrary, I 
warn you to expect the spirit of a Diogenes. That you may be 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 39 

a little prepared for his extraordinary manner, I will let you into 
some particulars of his history : — 

" He is the elder of the two sons of a gentleman of consid- 
erable estate in the country. Their father died when they were 
young : both were remarkable at school for quickness of parts, 
and extent of genius ; this had been bred to no profession, be- 
cause his father's fortune, which descended to him, was thought 
sufficient to set him above it ; the other was put apprentice 
to an eminent attorney. In this the expectations of his friends 
were more consulted than his own inclination ; for both his 
brother and he had feelings of that warm kind, that could ill 
brook a study so dry as the law, especially in that department 
of it which was allotted to him. But the difference of their tem- 
pers made the characteristical distinction between them. The 
younger, from the gentleness of his nature, bore, with patience, 
a situation entirely discordant to his genius and disposition. At 
times, indeed, his pride would suggest, of how little importance 
those talents were, which the partiality of his friends had often 
extolled : they were now incumbrances in a walk of life where 
the dull and the ignorant passed him at every turn ; his fancy and 
his feeling were invincible obstacles to eminence, in a situation 
where his fancy had no room for exertion, and his feeling ex- 
perienced perpetual disgust. But these murmurings he never 
suffered to be heard ; and that he might not offend the prudence 
of those who had been concerned in the choice of his profession, 
he continued to labor in it several years, till by the death of a 
relation, he succeeded to an estate of little better than a hundred 
pounds a year, with which, and the small patrimony left him, he 
retired into the country, and made a love-match with a young 
lady of a temper similar to his own, with whom the sagacious 
world pitied him for finding happiness. 

" But his elder brother, whom you are to see at supper, if you 
will do us the favor of your company, was naturally impetuous, 
decisive, and overbearing. He entered into life with those 
ardent expectations, by which young men are commonly de- 
luded : in his friendships, warm to excess ; and equally violent 
in his dislikes. He was on the brink of marriage with a young 
lady, when one of those friends, for whose honor he would have 
pawned his life, made an elopement with that very goddess, and 
left him besides deeply engaged for sums, which that good 
friend's extravagance had squandered. 

" The dreams he had formerly enjoyed were now changed for 
ideas of a very different nature. He abjured all confidence in 
any thing of human form ; sold his lands, which still produced 
him a very large reversion ; came to town, and immured him- 
self with a woman, who had been his nurse, in little better than 



40 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

a garret ; and has ever since applied his talents to the vilifying 
of his species. In one thing I must take the liberty to instruct 
you ; — however different your sentiments may be, (and different 
they must be,) you will suffer him to go on without contradiction, 
otherwise he will be silent immediately, and we shall not get a 
word from him all the night after." Harley promised to remem- 
ber this injunction, and accepted the invitation of his friend. 

When they arrived at the house, they were informed that the 
gentleman was come, and had been shown into the parlor. They 
found him sitting with a daughter of his friend's, about three 
years old, on his knee, whom he was teaching the alphabet from 
a horn-book : at a little distance stood a sister of hers, some 
years older. " Get you away, Miss," said he to this last ; 
" you are a pert gossip, and I will have nothing to do with you." 
" Nay," answered she, " Nancy is your favorite ; you are quite 
in love with Nancy." " Take away that girl," said he to her 
father, whom he now observed to have entered the room, " she 
has woman about her already." The children were accordingly 
dismissed. 

Between that and supper time, he did not utter a syllable. 
When supper came, he quarrelled with every dish at table, but 
eat of them all ; only exempting from his censures a sallad, 
" which you have not spoiled," said he, " because you have not 
attempted to cook it." 

When the wine was set upon the table, he took from his pocket 
a particular smoking apparatus, and filled his pipe, without taking 
any more notice of Harley, or his friend, than if no such persons 
had been in the room. 

Harley could not help stealing a look of surprise at him ; but 
his friend, who knew his humor, returned it, by annihilating his 
presence in the like manner, and, leaving him to his own medi- 
tations, addressed himself entirely to Harley. 

In their discourse, some mention happened to be made of an 
amiable character, and the words honor and politeness were ap- 
plied to it. Upon this, the gentleman, laying down his pipe, and 
changing the tone of his countenance, from an ironical grin to 
something more intently contemptuous — " Honor," said he, 
" Honor and Politeness ! this is the coin of the world, and passes 
current with the fools of it. You have substituted the shadow 
Honor, instead of the substance Virtue ; and have banished the 
reality of friendship for the fictitious semblance, which you have 
termed politeness : politeness, which consists in a certain cere- 
monious jargon, more ridiculous to the ear of reason than the 
voice of a puppet. You have invented sounds, which you wor- 
ship, though they tyrannize over your peace ; and are surrounded 
with empty forms, which take from the honest emotions of joy, 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 41 

and add to the poignancy of misfortune." — " Sir!" said Harley 
- — His friend winked to him, to remined hirn of the caution he 
had received. He was silenced by the thought. The philoso- 
pher turned his eye upon him : he examined him from top to 
toe, with a sort of triumphant contempt. Harley's coat happened 
to be a new one ; the other's was as shabby as could possibly 
be supposed to be on the back of a gentleman : there was much 
significance in his look with regard to his coat: it spoke of the 
sleekness of folly, and the threadbareness of wisdom. 

" Truth," continued he, " the most amiable, as well as the 
most natural, of virtues, you are at pains to eradicate. Your 
very nurseries are seminaries of falsehood ; and what is called 
Fashion in manhood, completes the system of avowed insin- 
cerity. Mankind, in the gross, is a gaping monster, that loves 
to be deceived, and has seldom been disappointed : nor is their 
vanity less fallacious to your philosophers, who adopt modes of 
truth to follow them through the paths of error, and defend para- 
doxes merely to be singular in defending them. These are 
they whom ye term Ingenious ; 'tis a phrase of commendation 
I detest ; it implies an attempt to impose on my judgment, by 
flattering my imagination ; yet these are they whose works are 
read by the old with delight, which the young are taught to look 
upon as the codes of knowledge and philosophy. 

" Indeed, the education of your youth is every way prepos- 
terous ; you waste at school years in improving talents, without 
having ever spent an hour in discovering them ; one promiscuous 
line of instruction is followed, without regard to genius, capa- 
city, or probable situation in the commonwealth. 

" From this bear garden of the pedagogue, a raw unprincipled 
boy is turned loose upon the world to travel ; without any ideas 
but those of improving his dress at Paris, or starting into taste 
by gazing on some paintings at Rome. Ask him of the manners 
of the people, and he will tell you, That the skirt is worn much 
shorter in France, and that every body eats macaroni in Italy. 
When he returns home, he buys a seat in parliament, and studies 
the constitution at Arthur's. 

" Nor are your females trained to any more useful purpose : 
they are taught, by the very rewards which their nurses propose 
for good behaviour, by the first thing like a jest which they hear 
from every male visiter of the family, that a young woman is a 
creature to be married ; and, when they are grown somewhat 
older, are instructed, that it is the purpose of marriage to have 
the enjoyment of pinmoney, and the expectation of a jointure. 

* " These indeed are the effects of luxury, which is perhaps 

* Though the curate could not rememhrr having shown this chapter to 
any body, I strongly suspect that those political observations are the work 

4* 



42 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

inseparable from a certain degree of power and grandeur in a 
nation. But it is not simply of the progress of luxury that we 
have to complain : did its votaries keep in their own sphere of 
thoughtless dissipation, we might despise them without emotion ; 
but the frivolous pursuits of pleasure are mingled with the most 
important concerns of the state ; and public enterprise shall sleep 
till he who should guide its operation has decided his bets at 
Newmarket, or fulfilled his engagement with a favorite mistress 
in the country. We want some man of acknowledged eminence 
to point our counsels with that firmness which the counsels of a 
great people require. We have hundreds of ministers, who press 
forward into office, without having ever learned that art which 
is necessary for every business — the art of thinking ; and mis- 
take the petulance, which could give inspiration to smart sar- 
casms on an obnoxious measure in a popular assembly, for the 
ability which is to balance the interest of kingdoms, and inves- 
tigate the latent sources of national superiority. With the 
administration of such men, the people can never be satisfied ; 
for, besides that their confidence is gained only by the view of 
superior talents, there needs that depth of knowledge, which is 
not only acquainted with the just extent of power, but can also 
trace its connexion with the expedient, to preserve its possessors 
from the contempt which attends irresolution, or the resentment 
which follows temerity." 

******** 
[Here a considerable part is wanting.] 
* * u i n short, man is an animal equally selfish and vain. 
Vanity, indeed, is but a modification of selfishness. From the 
latter, there are some who pretend to be free : they are gener- 
ally such as declaim against the lust of wealth and power, be- 
cause they have never been able to attain any high degree in 
either : they boast of generosity and feeling. They tell us, (per- 
haps they tell us in rhyme,) that the sensation of an honest heart, 
of a mind universally benevolent, make up the quiet bliss which 
they enjoy ; but they will not, by this, be exempted from the 
charge of selfishness. Whence the luxurious happiness they 
describe in their little family circles ? Whence the pleasure 
which they feel, when they trim their evening fires, and listen to 
the howl of the winter's wind ? Whence, but from the secret 
reflection of what houseless wretches feel from it ? Or do you 

of a later pen than the rest of this performance. There seems to have been 
by some accident a gap in the manuscript, from the words, "Expectation of 
a jointure," to these, " In short, man is an animal," where the present blank 
ends ; and some other person (for the hand is different, and the ink whiter) 
has filled part of it with sentiments of his own. Whoever he was, he seems 
to have caught some portion of the spirit of the man he personates. 



THE MAN OF FEEXlNG. 43 

administer comfort in affliction — the motive is at hand ; I have had 
it preached to me in nineteen out of twenty of your consolatory 
discourses — the comparative littleness of our own misfortunes. 

" With vanity your best virtues are grossly tainted : your 
benevolence, which ye deduce immediately from the natural 
impulse of the heart, squints to it for its reward. There are 
some, indeed, who tell us of the satisfaction which flows from a 
secret consciousness of good actions : this secret satisfaction is 
truly excellent — when we have some friend to whom we may 
discover its excellence." 

He now paused a moment to relight his pipe, when a clock, that 
stood at his back, struck eleven ; he started up at the sound; took 
his hat and his cane, and, nodding good night with his head, 
walked out of the room. The gentleman of the house called a 
servant to bring the stranger's surtout. " What sort of a night 
is it, fellow ?" said he. " It rains, Sir," answered the servant, 

" with an easterly wind." — " Easterly for ever !" He made 

no other reply ; but shrugging up his shoulders till they almost 
touched his ears, wrapped himself tight in his great coat, and 
disappeared. 

" This is a strange creature," said his friend to Harley. " I 
cannot say," answered he, " that his remarks are of the plea- 
sant kind : it is curious to observe how the nature of truth may 
be changed by the garb it wears ; softened to the admonition 
of friendship, or soured into the severity of reproof. Yet this 
severity may be useful to some tempers : it somewhat resem- 
bles a file ; disagreeable in its operation, but hard metals may- 
be the brighter for it." 



CHAPTER XXV. 

His Skill in Physiognomy. 

The company at the baronet's removed to the playhouse 
accordingly, and Harley took his usual route into the Park. 
He observed, as he entered, a fresh-looking elderly gentleman 
in conversation with a beggar, who, leaning on his crutch, was 
recounting the hardships he had undergone, and explaining the 
wretchedness of his present condition. This was a very inter- 
esting dialogue to Harley ; he was rude enough, therefore, to 
slacken his pace, as he approached, and, at last, to make a fulL 



44 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

stop at the gentleman's back, who was just then expressing his 
compassion for the beggar, and regretting that he had not a 
farthing of change about him. At saying this, he looked pite- 
ously on the fellow : there was something in his physiognomy 
which caught Harley's notice : indeed, physiognomy was one 
of Harley's foibles, for which he had been often rebuked by his 
aunt in the country ; who used to tell him, that when he was 
come to her years and experience, he would know that all's not 
gold that glitters : and it must be owned, that his aunt was a 
very sensible, harsh-looking, maiden lady, of threescore and up- 
wards. But he was too apt to forget this caution ; and now, it 
seems, it had not occurred to him : stepping up, therefore, to the 
gentleman, who was lamenting the want of silver, " Your inten- 
tions, Sir," said he, " are so good, that I cannot help lending 
you my assistance to carry them into execution," and gave the 
beggar a shilling. The other returned a suitable compliment, 
and extolled the benevolence of Harley. They kept walking 
together, and benevolence grew the topic of discourse. 

The stranger was fluent on the subject. " There is no use 
of money," said he, " equal to that of beneficence : with the 
profuse, it is lost ; and even with those who lay it out according 
to the prudence of the world, the objects acquired by it pall on 
the sense, and have scarce become our own till they lose their 
value with the power of pleasing ; but here the enjoyment grows 
on reflection, and our money is most truly ours, when it ceases 
being in our possession." 

" Yet I agree in some measure," answered Harley, " with 
those who think, that charity to our common beggars is often 
misplaced ; there are objects less obtrusive, whose title is a 
better one." 

" We cannot easily distinguish," said the stranger ; "and even 
of the worthless, are there not many whose imprudence, or whose 
vice, may have been one dreadful consequence of misfortune V 

Harley looked again in his face, and blessed himself for his 
skill in physiognomy. 

By this time they had reached the end of the walk, the old 
gentleman leaning on the rails to take breath, and in the mean 
time they were joined by a younger man, whose figure was 
much above the appearance of his dress, which was poor and 
shabby ; Harley's former companion addressed him as an ac- 
quaintance, and they turned on the walk together. 

The elder of the strangers complained of the closeness of 
the evening, and asked the other if he would go with him into a 
house hard by, and take a draught of excellent cider. " The 
man who keeps this house," said he to Harley, " was once a 
servant of mine ; I could not think of turning loose upon the 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 45 

world a faithful old fellow, for no other reason but that his age 
had incapacitated him ; so I gave him an annuity of ten pounds, 
with the help of which he has set up this little place here, and 
his daughter goes and sells milk in the city, while her father 
manages his tap-room, as he calls it, at home. I can't well ask 
a gentleman of your appearance to accompany me to so paltry 
a place." — "Sir," replied Harley, interrupting him, " I would 
much rather enter it than the most celebrated tavern in town : to 
give to the necessitous, may sometimes be a weakness in the 
man ; to encourage industry, is a duty in the citizen." They 
entered the house accordingly. 

On a table at the corner of the room lay a pack of cards, 
loosely thrown together. The old gentleman reproved the man 
of the house for encouraging so idle an amusement. Harley 
attempted to defend him, from the necessity of accommodating 
himself to the humor of his guests, and, taking up the cards, 
began to shuffle them backwards and forwards in his hand. 
"Nay, I don't think cards so unpardonable an amusement as 
some do," replied the other ; " and now and then, about this 
time of the evening, when my eyes begin to fail me for my book, 
I divert myself with a game at piquet, without finding my morals 
a bit relaxed by it. Do you play piquet, Sir?" (to Harley.) 
Harley answered in the affirmative ; upon which the other pro- 
posed playing a pool at a shilling the game, doubling the stakes ; 
adding, that he never played higher with any body. 

Harley's good nature could not refuse the benevolent old 
man : and the younger stranger, though he at first pleaded prior 
engagements, yet being earnestly solicited by his friend, at last 
yielded to solicitation. 

When they began to play, the old gentleman, somewhat to 
the surprise of Harley, produced ten shillings to serve for 
markers of his score. " He had no change for the beggar," 
said Harley to himself; " but I can easily account for it ; it 
is curious to observe the affection that inanimate things will 
create in us by a long acquaintance : if I may judge from my 
own feelings, the old man would not part with one of these 
counters for ten times its intrinsic value ; it even got the better 
of his benevolence ! I myself have a pair of old brass sleeve- 
buttons" — Here he was interrupted by being told, that the old 
gentleman had beat the younger, and that it was his turn to take 
up the conqueror. " Your game has been short," said Harley. 
" I repiqued him," answered the old man, with joy sparkling in 
his countenance. Harley wished to be repiqued too, but he 
was disappointed ; for he had the same good fortune against his 
opponent. Indeed, never did fortune, mutable as she is, delight 
in mutability so much as at that moment : the victory was so 



46 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

quick, and so constantly alternate, that the stake, in a short time, 
amounted to no less a sum than twelve pounds ; Harley's pro- 
portion of which was within half a guinea of the money he had 
in his pocket. He had before proposed a division, but the old 
gentleman opposed it with such a pleasant warmth in his manner, 
that it was always over-ruled. Now, however, he told them, 
that he had an appointment with some gentlemen, and it was 
within a few minutes of his hour. The young stranger had 
gained one game, and was engaged in the second with the other ; 
they agreed, therefore, that the stake should be divided, if the 
old gentleman won that ; which was more than probable, as his 
score was ninety to thirty-five, and he was elder hand ; but a 
momentous repique decided it in favor of his adversary, who 
seemed to enjoy his victory mingled with regret, for having won 
too much, while his friend, with great ebullience of passion, 
many praises of his own good play, and many maledictions on 
the power of chance, took up the cards, and threw them into 
the fire. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

The Man of Feeling in a Brothel. 

The company he was engaged to meet were assembled in 
Fleet-street. He had walked some time along the Strand, 
amidst a crowd of those wretches who wait the uncertain wages of 
prostitution, with ideas of pity suitable to the scene around him, 
and the feelings he possessed, and had got as far as Somerset- 
house, when one of them laid hold of his arm, and with a voice 
tremulous and faint, asked him for a pint of wine, in a manner 
more supplicatory than is usual with those whom the infamy of 
their profession has deprived of shame : he turned round at the 
demand, and looked steadfastly on the person who made it. 

She was above the common size, and elegantly formed ; her 
face was thin and hollow, and showed the remains of tarnished 
beauty. Her eyes were black, but had little of their lustre left : 
her cheeks had some paint laid on without art, and productive 
of no advantage to her complexion, which exhibited a deadly 
paleness on the other parts of her face. 

Harley stood in the attitude of hesitation ; which she inter- 
preting to her advantage, repeated her request, and endeavored 
to force a leer of invitation into her countenance. He took her 
arm, and they walked on to one of those obsequious taverns in 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 47 

the neighborhood, where the dearness of the wine is a discharge 
in full for the character of the house. From what impulse 
he did this, we do not mean to inquire ; as it has ever been 
against our nature to search for motives where bad ones are to 
be found. They entered, and a waiter showed them a room, 
and placed a bottle of wine on the table. 

Hurley filled the lady's glass ; which she had no sooner tasted, 
than, dropping it on the floor, and eagerly catching his arm, her 
eye grew fixed, her lip assumed a clayey whiteness, and she 
fell back lifeless in her chair. 

Harley started from his seat, and, catching her in his arms, 
supported her from falling to the ground, looking wildly at the 
door, as if he wanted to run for assistance, but durst not leave 
the miserable creature. It was not till some minutes after, that 
it occurred to him to ring the bell, which at last, however, he 
thought of, and rung with repeated violence even after the waiter 
appeared. Luckily, the waiter had his senses somewhat more 
about- him ; and snatching up a bottle of water, which stood on 
a buffet at the end of the room, he sprinkled it over the hands 
and face of the dying figure before him. She began to revive, 
and with the assistance of some hartshorn drops, which Harley 
now for the first time drew from his pocket, was able to desire 
the waiter to bring her a crust of bread, of which she swallowed 
some mouthfuls with the appearance of the keenest hunger. 
The waiter withdrew : when turning to Harley, sobbing at the 
same time, and shedding tears, " I am sorry, Sir," said she, 
** that I should have given you so much trouble ; but you will 
pity me when I tell you, that till now I have not tasted a morsel 
these two days past." He fixed his eyes on hers — every cir- 
cumstance but the last was forgotten ; and he took her hand 
with as much respect as if she had been a duchess. It was ever 
the privilege of misfortune to be revered by him. " Two days!" 
said he ; " and I have fared sumptuously every day !" — He was 
reaching to the bell ; she understood his meaning, and prevented 
him. " I beg, Sir," said she, " that you would give yourself no 
more trouble about a wretch who does not wish to live ; but, at 
present, I could not eat a bit ; my stomach even rose at the last 
mouthful of that crust." He offered to call a chair, saying, that 
he hoped a little rest would relieve her. He had one half-guinea 
left : " I am sorry," he said, " that at present I should be able 
to make you an offer of no more than this paltry sum." — She 
burst into tears : " Your generosity, Sir, is abused ; to bestow 
it on me is to take it from the virtuous : I have no title but misery 
to plead ; misery of my own procuring." " No more of that," 
answered Harley ; " there is virtue in these tears ; let the fruit 
of them be virtue." — He rung, and ordered a chair. — " Though 



48 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

I am the vilest of beings," said she, " I have not forgotten every 
virtue ; gratitude, I hope, I shall still have left, did I but know 
who is my benefactor." — " My name is Harley." — " Could I 
ever have an opportunity" — " You shall, and a glorious one too! 
your future conduct — but I do not mean to reproach you — if, I 
say, — it will be the noblest reward — I will do myself the plea- 
sure of seeing you again." — Here the waiter entered, and told 
them the chair was at the door ; the lady informed Harley 
of her lodgings, and he promised to wait on her at ten next 
morning. 

He led her to the chair, and returned to clear with the waiter, 
without ever once reflecting that he had no money in his pocket. 
He was ashamed to make an excuse ; yet an excuse must be 
made : he was beginning to frame one, when the waiter cut him 
short, by telling him, that he could not run scores ; but that, if 
he would leave his watch, or any ether pledge, it would be as 
safe as if it lay in his pocket. Harley jumped at the proposal, 
and, pulling out his watch, delivered it into his hands imme- 
diately ; and having, for once, had the precaution to take a note 
of the lodging he intended to visit next morning, sallied forth 
with a blush of triumph on his face, without taking notice of the 
sneer of the waiter, who, twirling the watch in his hand, made 
him a profound bow at the door, and whispered to a girl, who 
stood in the passage, something, in which the word cully was 
honored with a particular emphasis. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

His Skill in Physiognomy is doubted. 

After he had been some time with the company he had 
appointed to meet, and the last bottle was called for, he first 
recollected that he would be again at a loss how to discharge 
his share of the reckoning. He applied, therefore, to one of 
them, with whom he was most intimate, acknowledging that he 
had not a farthing of money about him ; and, upon being jocu- 
larly asked the reason, acquainted them with the two adventures 
we have just now related. One of the company asked him, if 
the old man in Hydepark did not wear a brownish coat, with a 
narrow gold edging, and his companion an old green frock, 
with a buff-colored waistcoat. Upon Harley's recollecting that 
they did, " Then," said he, " you may be thankful you have 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 49 

come off so well ; they are two as noted sharpers, in their way, 
as any in town, and but t'other night took me in for a much 
larger sum : I had some thoughts of applying to a justice, but 
one does not like to be seen in those matters." , 

Harley answered " That he could not but fancy the gentle- 
man was mistaken, as he never saw a face promise more honesty 
than that of the old man he had met with." — " His face !" said 
a grave looking man, who sat opposite to him, squirting the juice 
of his tobacco obliquely into the grate. There was something 
very emphatical in the action ; for it was followed by a burst of 
laughter round the table. " Gentlemen," said Harley, u you are 
disposed to be merry ; it may be as you imagine, for I confess 
myself ignorant of the town : but there is one thing which makes 
me bear the loss of my money with temper : the young fellow 
who won it must have been miserably poor ; I observed him 
borrow money for the stake from his friend : he had distress and 
hunger in his countenance : be his character what it may, his 
necessities at least plead for him." — At this there was a louder 
Jaugh than before. " Gentlemen," said the lawyer, one of whose 
conversations with Harley we have already recorded, " here's a 
very pretty fellow for you ; to have heard him talk some nights 
ago, as I did, you might have sworn he was a saint ; yet now he 
games with sharpers, and loses his money ; and is bubbled by 
a fine story invented by a whore, and pawns his watch ; here 
are sanctified doings with a witness !" 

" Young gentleman," said his friend on the other side of the 
table, " let me advise you to be a little more cautious for the 
future ; and as for faces — you may look into them to know, 
whether a man's nose be a long or a short one." 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

He keeps his Appointment. 

The last night's raillery of his companions was recalled to 
his remembrance when he awoke, and the colder homilies of 
prudence began to suggest some things which were nowise 
favorable for a performance of his promise to the unfortunate 
female he had met with before. He rose uncertain of his pur- 
pose ; but the torpor of such considerations was seldom preva- 
lent over the warmth of his nature. He walked some turns 
backwards and forwards in his room ; he recalled the languid 

5 



50 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

form of the fainting wretch to his mind ; he wept at the recol- 
lection of her tears. " Though I am the vilest of beings, I have 
not forgotten every virtue ; gratitude, I hope, I shall still have 
left." — He took a larger stride — " Powers of mercy that sur- 
round me !" cried he, " do ye not smile upon deeds like these 1 
to calculate the chances of deception is too tedious a business 
for the life of man I" The clock struck ten ! — When he had 
got down stairs, he found that he had forgot the note of her 
lodgings ; he gnawed his lips at the delay : he was fairly on the 
pavement, when he recollected having left his purse ; he did but 
just prevent himself from articulating an imprecation. He 
rushed a second time up into his chamber. " What a wretch I 
am," said he ; " ere this time, perhaps" — 'Twas a perhaps not 
to be borne ; — two vibrations of a pendulum would have served 
him to lock his bureau ; — but they could not be spared. 

When he reached the house, and inquired for Miss Atkins, 
(for that was the lady's name,) he was shown up three pair of 
stairs, into a small room lighted by one narrow lattice, and 
patched round with shreds of a different colored paper. In the 
darkest corner stood something like a bed, before which a tat- 
tered coverlet hung by way of curtain. He had not waited long 
when she appeared. Her face had the glister of new-washed 
tears on it. " I am ashamed, Sir," said she, " that you should 
have taken this fresh piece of trouble about one so little worthy 
of it ; but, to the humane, I know there is a pleasure in good- 
ness for its own sake : if you have patience for the recital of my 
story, it may palliate, though it cannot excuse, my faults." Har- 
ley bowed, as a sign of assent ; and she began as follows : 

" I am the daughter of an officer, whom a service of forty 
years had advanced no higher than to the rank of captain. I 
have had hints from himself, and been informed by others, that 
it was in some measure owing to those principles of rigid honor, 
which it was his boast to possess, and which he early inculcated 
on me, that he had been able to arrive at no better station. My 
mother died when I was a child ; old enough to grieve for her 
death, but incapable of remembering her precepts. Though my 
father was doatingly fond of her, yet there were some sentiments 
in which they materially differed : she had been bred from her 
infancy in the strictest principles of religion, and took the mo- 
rality of her conduct from the motives which an adherence to 
those principles suggested. My father, who had been in the 
army from his youth, affixed an idea of pusillanimity to that vir- 
tue, which was formed by the doctrines, excited by the rewards, 
or guarded by the terrors of revelation ; his darling idol was the 
honor of a soldier ; a term which he held in such reverence, that 
he used it for his most sacred asseveration. When my mother 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 51 

died, I was some time suffered to continue in those sentiments 
which her instructions had produced ; but soon after, though, 
from respect to her memory, my father did not absolutely ridi- 
cule them, yet he showed, in his discourse to others, so little 
regard to them, and at times suggested to me motives of action 
so different, that I was soon weaned from opinions, which I 
began to consider as the dreams of superstition, or the artful 
inventions of designing hypocrisy. My mother's books were 
left behind at the different quarters we removed to, and my 
reading was principally confined to plays, novels, and those 
poetical descriptions of the beauty of virtue and honor, which 
the circulating libraries easily afforded. 

" As I was generally reckoned handsome, and the quickness 
of my parts extolled by all our visiters, my father had a pride in 
showing me to the world. I was young, giddy, open to adula- 
tion, and vain of those talents which acquired it. 

" After the last war, my father was reduced to half-pay ; with 
which we retired to a village in the country, which the acquaint- 
ance of some genteel families who resided in it, and the cheap- 
ness of living, particularly recommended. My father rented a 
small house, with a piece of ground sufficient to keep a horse 
for him, and a cow for the benefit of his family. An old man- 
servant managed his ground ; while a maid, who had formerly 
been my mother's, and had since been mine, undertook the care 
of our little dairy : they were assisted in each of their provinces 
by my father and me ; and we passed our time in a state of 
tranquillity, which he had always talked of with delight, and 
which my train of reading had taught me to admire. 

" Though I had never seen the polite circles of the metropolis, 
the company my father had introduced me into had given me a 
degree of good-breeding, which soon discovered a superiority 
over the young ladies of our village. I was quoted as an ex- 
ample of politeness, and my company courted by most of the 
considerable families in the neighborhood. 

"Amongst the houses to which I was frequently invited, was 
Sir George Winbrooke's. He had two daughters nearly of my 
age, with whom, though they had been bred up in those maxims 
of vulgar doctrine, which my superior understanding could not but 
despise, yet as their good-nature led them to an imitation of my 
manners in every thing else, I cultivated a particular friendship. 

" Some months after our first acquaintance, Sir George's 
eldest son came home from his travels. His figure, his address, 
and conversation, were not unlike those warm ideas of an ac- 
complished man which my favorite novels had taught me to 
form ; and his sentiments on the article of religion were as lib- 
eral as my own : when any of these happened to be the topic 



52 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

of our discourse, I, who before had been silent, from a fear of 
being- single in opposition, now kindled at the fire he raised, 
and defended our mutual opinions with all the eloquence I was 
mistress of. He would be respectfully attentive all the while ; 
and when I had ended, would raise his eyes from the ground, 
look at me with a gaze of admiration, and express his applause 
in the highest strain of encomium. This was an incense the 
more pleasing, as I seldom or never had met with it before ; for 
the young gentlemen who visited Sir George were for the most 
part of that common race of country squires, the pleasure of 
whose lives is derived from fox-hunting ; these are seldom soli- 
citous to please the women at all ; or if they were, would never 
think of applying their flattery to the mind. 

" Mr. Winbrooke observed the weakness of my soul, and took 
every occasion of improving the esteem he had gained. He 
asked my opinion of every author, of every sentiment, with that 
submissive diffidence, which showed an unlimited confidence in 
my understanding. I saw myself revered, as a superior being, 
by one whose judgment my vanity told me was not likely to err ; 
preferred by him to all the other visiters of my sex, whose for- 
tunes and rank should have entitled them to a much higher de- 
gree of notice : I saw their little jealousies at the distinguished 
attention he paid me ; it was gratitude, it was pride, it was love ! 
love, which had made too fatal a progress in my heart, before 
any declaration on his part should have warranted a return : but 
I interpreted every look of attention, every expression of com- 
pliment, to the passion I imagined him inspired with, and im- 
puted to his sensibility that silence which was the effect of art 
and design. At length, however, he took an opportunity of 
declaring his love : he now expressed himself in such ardent 
terms, that prudence might have suspected their sincerity : but 
prudence is rarely found in the situation I had been unguardedly 
led into ; besides, that the course of reading to which I had been 
accustomed, did not lead me to conclude, that his expressions 
could be too warm to be sincere : nor was I even alarmed at 
the manner in which he talked of marriage, a subjection, he often 
hinted, to which genuine love should scorn to be confined. The 
woman, he would often say, who had merit like mine to fix his 
affection, could easily command it for ever. That honor, too, 
which I revered, was often called in to enforce his sentiments. 
I did not, however, absolutely assent to them ; but I found my 
regard for their opposites diminish by degrees. If it is danger- 
ous to be convinced, it is dangerous -to listen, for our reason is 
so much of a machine, that it will not always be able to resist, 
when the ear is perpetually assailed. In short, Mr. Harley, (for 
I tire you with a relation, the catastrophe of which you will 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 53 

already have imagined,) I fell a prey to his artifices. He had 
not been able so thoroughly to convert me, that my conscience 
was silent on the subject ; but he was so assiduous to give re- 
peated proofs of unabated affection, that I hushed its suggestions 
as they rose. The world, however, I knew, was not to be 
silenced ; and therefore I took occasion to express my uneasi- 
ness to my seducer, and entreat him, as he valued the peace of 
one to whom he professed such attachment, to remove it by a 
marriage. He made excuses from his dependance on the will 
of his father, but quieted my fears by the promise of endeavoring 
to win his assent. 

" My father had been some days absent on a visit to a dying 
relation, from whom he had considerable expectations. I was 
left at home, with no other company than my books : my books 
I found were not now such companions as they used to be ; I 
was restless, melancholy, unsatisfied with myself. But judge 
of my situation when I received a billet from Mr. Winbrooke, 
informing me that he had sounded Sir George on the subject 
we had talked of, and found him so averse to any match so un- 
equal to his own rank and fortune, that he was obliged, with 
whatever reluctance, to bid adieu to a place, the remembrance 
of which should ever be dear to him. 

" I read this letter a hundred times over. Alone, helpless, 
conscious of guilt, and abandoned by every better thought, my 
mind was one motley scene of terror, confusion, and remorse. 
A thousand expedients suggested themselves, and a thousand 
fears told me they would be vain : at last, in an agony of de- 
spair, I packed up a few clothes, took what money and trinkets 
were in the house, and set out for London, whither I understood 
he was gone ; pretending to my maid, that I had received letters 
from my father requiring my immediate attendance. I had no 
other companion than a boy, a servant to the man from whom I 
hired my horses. I arrived in London within an hour of Mr. 
Winbrooke, and accidentally alighted at the very inn where 
he was. 

" He started and turned pale when he saw me ; but recovered 
himself in time enough to make many new protestations of re- 
gard, and beg me to make myself easy under a disappointment 
which was equally afflicting to him. He procured me lodgings, 
where I slept, or rather endeavored to sleep, for that night. Next 
morning I saw him again ; he then mildly observed on the im- 
prudence of my precipitate flight from the country, and proposed 
my removing to lodgings at another end of the town, to elude 
the search of my father, till he should fall upon some method of 
excusing my conduct to him, and reconciling him to my return. 
We took a hackney-coach, and drove to the house he mentioned. 

5* 



54 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

" It was situated in a dirty lane, furnished with a tawdry affec- 
tation of finery, with some old family pictures hanging on walls 
which their own cobwebs would better have suited. I was struck 
with a secret dread at entering ; nor was it lessened by the ap- 
pearance of the landlady, who had that look of selfish shrewd- 
ness, which, of all others, is the most hateful to those whose 
feelings are untinctured with the world. A girl, who she told 
us was her niece, sat by her, playing on a guitar, while herself 
was at work, with the assistance of spectacles, and had a prayer- 
book, with the leaves folded down in several places, lying on the 
table before her. Perhaps, Sir, I tire you with my minuteness ; 
but the place, and every circumstance about it, is so impressed 
on my mind, that I never shall forget it 

" I dined that day with Mr. Winbrooke alone. He lost by 
degrees that restraint which I perceived too well to hang about 
him before, and, with his former gayety and good-humor, re- 
peated the flattering things, which, though they had once been 
fatal, I durst not now distrust. At last, taking my hand and kiss- 
ing it, ' It is thus,' said he, l that love will last, while freedom is 
preserved ; thus let us ever be blest, without the galling thought 
that we are tied to a condition where we may cease to be so.' I 
answered, » That the world thought otherwise ; that it had cer- 
tain ideas of good fame, which it was impossible not to wish to 
maintain.' l The world,' said he, ' is a tyrant ; they are slaves 
who obey it : let us be happy without the pale of the world. 
To-morrow I shall leave this quarter of it, for one where the 
talkers of the world shall be foiled, and lose us. Could not my 
Emily accompany me ? my friend, my companion, the mistress 
of my soul ! Nay, do not look so, Emily ! your father may 
grieve for a while, but your father shall be taken care of; this 
bank bill I intend as the comfort for his daughter.' 

" I could contain myself no longer ; ' Wretch !' I exclaimed, 
* dost thou imagine that my father's heart could brook depend- 
ance on the destroyer of his child, and tamely accept of a base 
equivalent for her honor and his own?' 'Honor, my Emily „* 
said he, ' is the word of fools, or of those wiser men who cheat 
them. 'Tis a fantastic bauble, that does not suit the gravity of 
your father's age ; but, whatever it is, I am afraid it can never 
be perfectly restored to you : exchange the word then, and let 
pleasure be your object now.' At these words he clasped me 
in his arms, and pressed his lips rudely to my bosom. I started 
from my seat. ' Perfidious villain I' said I, l who dar'st insult 
the weakness thou hast undone ; were that father here, thy 
coward soul would shrink from the vengeance of his honor. 
Curst be that wretch who has deprived him of it ! oh ! doubly 
curst, who has dragged on his hoary head the infamy which 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 55 

should have crushed her own !" I snatched a knife which lay 
beside me, and would have plunged it in my breast ; but the 
monster prevented my purpose, and smiling with a grin of bar- 
barous insult, * Madam,' said he, ' I confess you are too much 
in heroics for me : I am sorry we should differ about trifles ; 
but as I seem somehow to have offended you, I would willingly 
remedy it by taking my leave. You have been put to some 
foolish expense in this journey on my account ; allow me to re- 
imburse you.' So saying, he laid a bank bill, of what amount 
I had no patience to see, upon the table. Shame, grief, and 
indignation, choked my utterance ; unable to speak my wrongs, 
and unable to bear them in silence, I fell in a swoon at his feet. 

" What happened in the interval I cannot tell ; but when I 
came to myself, I was in the arms of the landlady, with her niece 
charing my temples, and doing all in her power for my recovery. 
She had much compassion in her countenance : the old woman 
assumed the softest look she was capable of, and both endea- 
vored to bring me comfort. They continued to show me many 
civilities, and even the aunt began to be less disagreeable in my 
sight. To the wretched, to the forlorn, as I was, small offices 
of kindness are endearing. 

" Mean time my money was far spent, nor did I attempt to 
conceal my wants from their knowledge. I had frequent 
thoughts of returning to my father ; but the dread of a life of 
scorn is insurmountable. I avoided therefore going abroad 
when I had a chance of being seen by any former acquaintance, 
nor indeed did my health for a great while permit it ; and suf- 
fered the old woman, at her own suggestion, to call me niece at 
home, where we now and then saw (when they could prevail on 
me to leave my room) one or two other elderly women, and 
sometimes a grave business-like man, who showed great com- 
passion for my indisposition, and made me very obligingly an 
offer of a room at his country-house for the recovery of my 
health. This offer I did not choose to accept ; but told my 
landlady, that I would be glad to be employed in any way of 
business which my skill in needlework could recommend me to ; 
confessing, at the same time, that I was afraid I should scarce 
be able to pay her what I already owed for board and lodging ; 
and that for her other good offices, I had nothing but thanks to 
give her." 

" My dear child, said she, do not talk of paying ; since I lost 
my own sweet girl, (here she wept,) your very picture she was, 
Miss Emily, I have nobody except my niece, to whom I should 
leave any little thing I have been able to save : you shall live 
with me, my dear ; and I have sometimes a little millinery work, 
in which, when you are inclined to it, you may assist us. By 



56 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

the way, here are a pair of ruffles we have just finished for that 
gentleman you saw here at tea ; a distant relation of mine, and 
a worthy man he is. 'Twas pity you refused the offer of an 
apartment at his country-house ; my niece, you know, was to 
have accompanied you, and you might have fancied yourself at 
home ; a most sweet place it is, and but a short mile beyond 
Hampstead. Who knows, Miss Emily, what effect such a visit 
might have had ! if I had half your beauty, I should not waste it 
pining after e'er a worthless fellow of them all. I felt my heart 
swell at her words ; I would have been angry if I could ; but I 
was in that stupid state which is not easily awakened to anger : 
when I would have chid her, the reproof stuck in my throat ; I 
could only weep ! 

" Her want of respect increased, as I had not spirit enough to 
assert it ; my work was now rather imposed than offered, and I 
became a drudge for the bread I eat : but my dependance and 
servility grew in proportion, and I was now in a situation which 
could not make any extraordinary exertions to disengage itself 
from either ; I found myself with child. 

" At last the wretch who had thus trained me to destruction, 
hinted the purpose for which those means had been used. I 
discovered her to be an artful procuress for the pleasures of 
those, who are men of decency to the world in the midst of 
debauchery. 

" I roused every spark of courage within me at the horrid 
proposal. She treated my passion at first somewhat mildly ; 
but when I continued to exert it, she resented it with insult, and 
told me plainly, That if I did not soon comply with her desires, 
I should pay every farthing I owed, or rot in a jail for life. I 
trembled at the thought ; still, however, I resisted her importu- 
nities, and she put her threats in execution. I was conveyed to 
prison, weak from my condition, weaker from that struggle of 
grief and misery which for some time I had suffered. A mis- 
carriage was the consequence. 

" Amidst all the horrors of such a state, surrounded with 
wretches totally callous, lost alike to humanity and to shame, 
think, Mr. Harley, think what I endured ; nor wonder that I at 
last yielded to the solicitations of that miscreant I had seen at 
her house, and sunk to the prostitution which he tempted. But 
that was happiness compared to what I suffered since. He soon 
abandoned me to the common use of the town, and I was cast 
among those miserable beings in whose society I have since 
remained. 

" Oh ! did the daughters of virtue know our sufferings ; did 
they see our hearts torn with anguish amidst the affectation of 
gayety which our faces are obliged to assume 1 our bodies tor- 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 57 

tured by disease, our minds with that consciousness which they 
cannot lose ! Did they know, did they think of this, Mr. Harley ! 
— their censures are just ; but their pity, perhaps, might spare 
the wretches whom their justice should condemn. 

" Last night, but for an exertion of benevolence which the 
infection of our infamy prevents even in the humane, I had been 
thrust out from this miserable place which misfortune has yet 
left me ; exposed to the brutal insults of drunkenness, or drag- 
ged by that justice which I could not bribe, to the punishment 
which may correct, but, alas ! can never amend, the abandoned 
objects of its terrors. From that, Mr. Harley, your goodness 
has relieved me." 

He beckoned with his hand : he would have stopped the 
mention of his favors ; but he could not speak, had it been to 
beg a diadem. 

She saw his tears ; her fortitude began to fail at the sight, 
when the voice of some stranger on the stairs awakened her 
attention. She listened for a moment ; then starting up, ex- 
claimed, " Merciful God ! my father's voice !" 

She had scarce uttered the word, when the door burst open, 
and a man entered in the garb of an officer. When he disco- 
vered his daughter and Harley, he started back a few paces ; 
his look assumed a furious wildness ; he laid his hand on his 
sword. The two objects of his wrath did not utter a syllable. 
" Villain," he cried, " thou seest a father who had once a 
daughter's honor to preserve ; blasted as it now is, behold him 
ready to avenge its loss !" 

Harley had by this time some power of utterance. " Sir," 
said he, " if you will be a moment calm" — " Infamous coward !" 
interrupted the other, " dost thou preach calmness to wrongs 
like mine?" He drew his sword. " Sir," said Harley, "let 
me tell you" — The blood ran quicker to his cheeks — his pulse 
beat one — no more — and regained the temperament of humanity ! 
— " You are deceived, Sir," said he, " you are much deceived ; 
but I forgive suspicions which your misfortunes have justified : I 
would not wrong you, upon my soul I would not, for the dearest 
gratification of a thousand worlds ; my heart bleeds for you !" 

His daughter was now prostrate at his feet. " Strike," said 
she, " strike here a wretch, whose misery cannot end but with 
that death she deserves." Her hair had fallen on her shoulders ! 
her look had the horrid calmness of out-breatheu despair ! Her 
father would have spoken ; his lip quivered ; his cheek grew 
pale ; his eyes lost the lightning of their fury ! there was a re- 
proach in them, but with a mingling of pity ! He turned them 
up to heaven — then on his daughter. He laid his left hand on 
his heart — the sword dropped from his right — he burst into tears. 



58 THE MAN OP FEELING-, 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

The Distresses of a Father. 



Harley kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate daughter ; 
" Allow me, Sir," said he, " to entreat your pardon for one 
whose offences have been already so signally punished. I 
know, I feel, that those tears, wrung from the heart of a father, 
are more dreadful to her than all the punishments your sword 
could have inflicted : accept the contrition of a child, whom 
heaven has restored to you." 

" Is she not lost," answered he, " irrecoverably lost ? Dam- 
nation ! a common prostitute to the meanest ruffian !" 

" Calmly, my dear Sir," said Harley, " did you know by 
what complicated misfortunes she had fallen to that miserable 
state in which you now behold her, I should have no need of 
words to excite your compassion. Think, Sir, of what once 
she was ! Would you abandon her to the insults of an un- 
feeling world, deny her opportunity for penitence, and cut off 
the little comfort that still remains for your afflictions and her 
own 1" 

" Speak," said he, addressing himself to his daughter ; 
" speak, I will hear thee." The desperation that supported her 
was lost : she fell to the ground, and bathed his feet with her 
tears ! 

Harley undertook her cause : he related the treacheries to 
which she had fallen a sacrifice, and again solicited the forgive- 
ness of her father. He looked on her for some time in silence ; 
the pride of a soldier's honor checked for a while the yearnings 
of his heart ; but nature at last prevailed, he fell on her neck, 
and mingled his tears with hers. 

Harley, who discovered from the dress of the stranger, that 
he was just arrived from a journey, begged that they would both 
remove to his lodgings, till he could procure others for them. 
Atkins looked at him with some marks of surprise. His daugh- 
ter now first recovered the power of speech : " Wretch as I 
am," said she, h yet there is some gratitude due to the preserver 
of your child. See him now before you. To him I owe my 
life, or at least the comfort of imploring your forgiveness before 
I die." " Pardon me, young gentleman," said Atkins, " I fear 
my passion wronged you." 

" Never, never, Sir," said Harley ; « if it had, your reconci- 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 59 

liation to your daughter were an atonement a thousand fold." 
He then repeated his request that he might be allowed to con- 
duct them to his lodgings ; to which Mr. Atkins at last consented. 
He took his daughter's arm. " Come, my Emily," said he, 
" we can never, never recover that happiness we have lost ! but 
time may teach us to remember our misfortunes with patience." 

When they arrived at the house where Harley lodged, he was 
informed, that the first floor was then vacant, and that the gen- 
tleman and his daughter might be accommodated there. While 
he was upon his inquiry, Miss Atkins informed her father more 
particularly what she owed to his benevolence. When he turned 
into the room where they were, Atkins ran and embraced him ; 
begged him again to forgive the offence he had given him, and 
made the warmest protestations of gratitude for his favors. We 
would attempt to describe the joy which Harley felt on this oc- 
casion, did it not occur to us, that one half of the world could 
not understand it, though we did ; and the other half will, by 
this time, have understood it without any description at all. 

Miss Atkins now retired to her chamber, to take some rest, 
from the violence of the emotions she had suffered. When she 
was gone, her father, addressing himself to Harley, said, " You 
have a right, Sir, to be informed of the present situation of one 
who owes so much to your compassion for his misfortunes. My 
daughter, I find, has informed you what that was at the fatal 
juncture when they began. Her distresses you have heard, you 
have pitied as they deserved ; with mine, perhaps, I cannot so 
easily make you acquainted. You have a feeling heart, Mr. 
Harley ; I bless it that it has saved my child ; but you never 
were a father, a father torn by that most dreadful of calamities, 
the dishonor of a child he doated on ! You have been already 
informed of some of the circumstances of her elopement. I 
was then from home, called by the death of a relation, who, 
though he would never advance me a shilling, on the utmost 
exigency, in his life-time, left me all the gleanings of his fru- 
gality at his death. I would not write this intelligence to my 
daughter, because I intended to be the bearer of it myself; and 
as soon as my business would allow me, I set out on my return, 
winged with all the haste of paternal affection. I fondly built 
those schemes of future happiness, which present prosperity is 
ever busy to suggest : my Emily was concerned in them all. 
As I approached our little dwelling, my heart throbbed with the 
anticipation of joy and welcome. I imagined the cheering fire, 
the blissful contentment of a frugal meal, made luxurious by a 
daughter's smile : I painted to myself her surprise at the tidings 
of our new-acquired riches, our fond disputes about the disposal 
of them. 



60 THE MAN OF FEELING, 

" The road was shortened by the dreams of happiness I en- 
joyed, and it began to be dark as I reached the house : I alighted 
from my horse, and walked softly up stairs to the room we 
commonly sat in. I was somewhat disappointed at not finding 
my daughter there. I rung the bell ; her maid appeared, and 
showed no small signs of wonder at the summons. She blessed 
herself, as she entered the room : I smiled at her surprise. 
4 Where is Miss Emily, Sir? said she. — 'Emily!' — 'Yes, Sir; 
she has been gone hence some days, upon receipt of those let- 
ters you sent her.' — 'Letters !' said I. — 'Yes, Sir; so she told 
me, and went off in all haste that very night.' 

" I stood aghast as she spoke ; but was able so far to recollect 
myself, as to put on the affectation of calmness, and telling her 
there was certainly some mistake in the affair, desired her to 
leave me. 

" When she was gone, I threw myself into a chair in that 
state of uncertainty which is of all others the most dreadful. 
The gay visions, with which I had delighted myself, vanished 
in an instant : I was tortured with tracing back the same circle 
of doubt and disappointment. My head grew dizzy, as I thought. 
I called the servant again, and asked her a hundred questions 
to no purpose ; there was not room even for conjecture. 

" Something at last arose in my mind, which we call Hope, 
without knowing what it is. I wished myself deluded by it ; 
but it could not prevail over my returning fears. I arose, and 
walked through the room. My Emily's spinnet stood at the 
end of it, open, with a book of music folded down at some of my 
favorite lessons. I touched the keys ; there was a vibration in 
the sound that froze my blood. I looked around, and methought 
the family pictures on the walls gazed on me with compassion 
in their faces. I sat down again, with an attempt, at more com- 
posure ; I started at every creaking of the door, and my ears 
rung with imaginary noises ! 

" I had not remained long in this situation, when the arrival 
of a friend, who had accidentally heard of my return, put an end 
to my doubts, by the recital of my daughter's dishonor. He 
told me he had his information from a young gentleman, to 
whom Winbrooke had boasted of having seduced her. 

" I started from my seat, with broken curses on my lips, and 
without knowing whither I should pursue them, ordered my 
servant to load my pistols, and saddle my horses. My friend, 
however, with great difficulty, persuaded me to compose myself 
for that night, promising to accompany me on the morrow to 
Sir George Winbrooke's in quest of his son. 

" The morrow came, after a night spent in a state little distant 
from madness. We went as early as decency would allow to 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 61 

Sir George's. He received me with politeness, and indeed 
compassion ; protested his abhorrence of his son's conduct, and 
told me, that he had set out some days before for London, on 
which place he had procured a draught for a large sum, on pre- 
tence of finishing his travels ; but that he had not heard from 
him since his departure. 

" I did not wait for any more, either of information or comfort, 
but, against the united remonstrances of Sir George and my 
friend, set out instantly for London, with a frantic uncertainty of 
purpose ; but there all manner of search was in vain. I could 
trace neither of them any farther than the inn where they first 
put up on their arrival ; and, after some days' fruitless inquiry, 
returned home, destitute of every little hope that had hitherto 
supported me. The journeys I had made, the restless nights I 
had spent, above all, the perturbation of my mind, had the effect 
which naturally might be expected : a very dangerous fever was 
the consequence. From this, however, contrary to the expec- 
tation of my physicians, I recovered. It was now that I first 
felt something like calmness of mind ; probably from being re- 
duced to a state which could not produce the exertions of anguish 
or despair. A stupid melancholy settled on my soul : I could 
endure to live with an apathy of life : at times, I forgot my re- 
sentment, and wept at the remembrance of my child. 

" Such has been the tenor of my days since that fatal moment 
when these misfortunes began, till yesterday, that I received a 
letter from a friend in town, acquainting me of her present situ- 
ation. Could such tales as mine, Mr. Harley, be sometimes 
suggested to the daughters of levity ; did they but know with 
what anxiety the heart of a parent flutters round the child he 
loves ; they would be less apt to construe into harshness that 
delicate concern for their conduct, which they often complain 
of as laying restraint upon things to the young, the gay, and the 
thoughtless, seemingly harmless and indifferent. Alas ! I fondly 
imagined that I needed not even these common cautions ! my 
Emily was the joy of my age, and the pride of my soul ! Those 
things are now no more ! they are lost for ever ! Her death I 
could have borne ; but the death of her honor has added obloquy 
and shame to that sorrow which bends my gray hairs to the 
dust !" 

As he spoke these last words, his voice trembled in his throat ; 
it was now lost in his tears ! He sat with his face half turned 
from Harley, as if he would have hid the sorrow which he felt. 
Harley was in the same attitude himself ; he durst not meet 
Atkins' eye with a tear ; but gathering his stifled breath, " Let 
me entreat you, Sir," said he, " to hope better things. The 
world is ever tyrannical ; it warps our sorrows to edge them 

6 



62 THE MAN OF FEELING* 

with keener affliction : let us not be slaves to the names it affixes 
to motive or to action. I know an ingenuous mind cannot help 
feeling when they sting : but there are considerations by which 
it may be overcome : its fantastic ideas vanish as they rise ; 
they teach us — to look beyond it." 

******** 



A FRAGMENT. 

Showing his success with the Baronet. 

*** The card he received was in the politest style in which 
disappointment could be communicated : the baronet " was un- 
der the necessity of giving up his application for Mr. Harley, 
as he was informed, that the lease was engaged for a gentleman 
who had long served his majesty in another capacity, and whose 
merit had entitled him to the first lucrative thing that should be 
vacant." Even Harley could not murmur at such a disposal. 
" Perhaps," said he to himself, " some war-worn officer, who, 
like poor Atkins, had been neglected from reasons which merited 
the highest advancement ; whose honor could not stoop to solicit 
the preferment he deserved ; perhaps, with a family, taught the 
principles of delicacy, without the means of supporting it ; a wife 
and children, — gracious heaven ! whom my wishes would have 
deprived of bread !" 

He was interrupted in his reverie by some one tapping him 
on the shoulder ; and, on turning round, he discovered it to be 
the very man who had explained to him the condition of his gay 
companion at Hyde-park corner. " I am glad to see you, Sir," 
said he; "I believe we are fellows in disappointment." Harley 
started, and said, that he was at a loss to understand him. 
44 Poh ! you need not be so shy," answered the other ; " every 
one for himself is but fair, and I had much rather you had got 
it than the rascally guager." Harley still protested his ignorance 
of what he meant. " Why, the lease of Bancroft-manor : had 
not you been applying for it V 9 — " I confess I was," replied 
Harley ; " but I cannot conceive how you should be interested 
in the matter." — " Why, I was making interest for it myself," 
said he, " and I think I had some title : I voted for this same 
baronet at the last election, and made some of my friends do 
so too ; though I would not have you imagine that I sold my 
vote ; no, I scorn it, let me tell you, I scorn it : but I thought 
as how this man was staunch and true, and I find he's but a 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 63 

double-faced fellow after all, and speechifies in the house for 
any side he hopes to make most by. Oh! how many fine, 
speeches, and squeezings by the hand, we had of him on the 
canvass ! ' And if ever I shall be so happy as to have an oppor- 
tunity of serving you ;' — a murrain on the smooth-tongued knave ! 
and after all to get it for this pimp of a guager." — " The guager ! 
there must be some mistake," said Harley ; " he writes me, that 
it was engaged for one, whose long services" — " Services !" 
interrupted the other ; " you shall hear. Services ! yes, his 
sister arrived in town a few days ago, and is now seamstress to 
the baronet. A plague on all rogues ! says honest Sam Wright- 
son : I shall but just drink damnation to them to-night, in a 
crown's-worth of Ashley's, and leave London to-morrow by 
sunrise." — " I shall leave it too," said Harley ; and so he ac- 
cordingly did. 

In passing through Piccadilly, he had observed, on the win- 
dow of an inn, a notification of the departure of a stage-coach 
for a place in his road homewards ; in the way back to his 
lodgings, he took a seat in it for his return. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

He leaves London — Characters in a Stage-Coach. 

The company in the stage-coach consisted of a grocer and 
his wife, who were going to pay a visit to some of their country 
friends ; a young officer, who took this way of marching to 
quarters ; a middle-aged gentlewoman, who had been hired as 
housekeeper to some family in the country ; and an elderly, 
well-looking man, with a remarkable old-fashioned periwig. 

Harley, upon entering, discovered but one vacant seat, next 
the grocer's wife, which, from his natural shyness of temper, he 
made no scruple to occupy, however aware that riding back- 
wards always disagreed with him. 

Though his inclination to physiognomy had met with some 
rubs in the metropolis, he had not yet lost his attachment to that 
science : he set himself, therefore, to examine, as usual, the 
countenances of his companions. Here, indeed, he was not 
long in doubt as to the preference ; for, besides that the elderly 
gentleman, who sat opposite to him, had features by nature 
more expressive of good dispositions, there was something in 



64 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

that periwig we mentioned, peculiarly attractive of Harley's 
regard. 

He had not been long employed in these speculations, when 
he found himself attacked with that faintish sickness, which was 
the natural consequence of his situation in the coach. The 
paleness of his countenance was first observed by the house- 
keeper, who immediately made offer of her smelling-bottle, 
which Harley, however, declined, telling, at the same time, the 
cause of his uneasiness. The gentleman on the opposite side 
of the coach now first turned his eye from the side-direction in 
which it had been fixed, and begged Harley to exchange places 
with him, expressing his regret that he had not made the pro- 
posal before. Harley thanked him, and, upon being assured 
that both seats were alike to him, was about to accept his offer, 
when the young gentleman of the sword, putting on an arch 
look, laid hold of the other's arm. " So, my old boy," said he, 
" I find you have still some youthful blood about you, but, with 
your leave, I will do myself the honor of sitting by this lady ;" 
and took his place accordingly. The grocer stared him as full 
in the face as his own short neck would allow ; and his wife, 
who was a little round-faced woman, with a great deal of color 
in her cheeks, drew up at the compliment that was paid her, 
looking first at the officer, and then at the housekeeper. 

This incident was productive of some discourse ; for before, 
though there was sometimes a cough or a hem from the grocer, 
and the officer now and then humm'd a few notes of a song, there 
had not a single word passed the lips of any of the company. 

Mrs. Grocer observed, how ill-convenient it was for people, 
who could not bear to ride backwards, to travel in a stage. 
This brought on a dissertation on stage-coaches in general, and 
the pleasure of keeping a chay of one's own ; which led to an- 
other, on the great riches of Mr. Deputy Bearskin, who, accord- 
ing to her, had once been of that industrious order of youths 
who sweep the crossings of the streets for the conveniency of 
passengers, but, by various fortunate accidents, had now ac- 
quired an immense fortune, and kept his coach and a dozen 
livery servants. All this afforded ample fund for conversation, 
if conversation it might be called, that was carried on solely by 
the before mentioned lady, nobody offering to interrupt her, 
except that the officer sometimes signified his approbation by a 
variety of oaths, a sort of phraseology in which he seemed ex- 
tremely conversant. She appealed, indeed, frequently to her 
husband for the authenticity of certain facts, of which the good 
man as often protested his total ignorance ; but as he was 
always called fool, or something very like it, for his pains, he 
at last contrived to support the credit of his wife without preju- 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 65 

dice to his conscience, and signified his assent by a noise not 
unlike the grunting of that animal which in shape and fatness he 
somewhat resembled. 

The housekeeper, and the old gentleman who sat next to 
Ilarley, were now observed to be fast asleep ; at which the lady, 
who had been at such pains to entertain them, muttered some 
words of displeasure, and, upon the officer's whispering to smoke 
the old put, both she and her husband pursed up their mouths 
into a contemptuous smile. Harley looked sternly on the grocer : 
" You are come, Sir," said he, " to those years when you might 
have learned some reverence for age : as for this young man, 
who has so lately escaped from the nursery, he may be allowed 
to divert himself." "Damme, Sir," said the officer, "do you 
call me young?" striking up the front of his hat, and stretching 
forward on his seat, till his face almost touched Harley's. It 
is probable, however, that he discovered something there which 
tended to pacify him ; for, on the lady's entreating them not to 
quarrel, he very soon resumed his posture and calmness together, 
and was rather less profuse of his oaths during the rest of the 
journey. 

It is possible the old gentleman had waked time enough to 
hear the last part of this discourse ; at least (whether from that 
cause, or that he too was a physiognomist) he wore a look re- 
markably complacent to Harley, who, on his part, showed a 
particular observance of him : indeed they had soon a better 
opportunity of making their acquaintance, as the coach arrived 
that night at the town where the officer's regiment lay, and the 
places of destination of their other fellow-travellers, it seems, 
were at no great distance ; for next morning the old gentleman 
and Harley were the only passengers remaining. 

When they left the inn in the morning, Harley, pulling out a 
little pocket-book, began to examine the contents, and make 
some corrections with a pencil. " This," said he, turning to his 
companion, " is an amusement with which I sometimes pass idle 
hours at an inn : these are quotations from those humble poets, 
who trust their fame to the brittle tenure of windows and drink- 
ing-glasses." " From our inns," returned the gentleman, " a 
stranger might imagine that we were a nation of poets ; machines 
at least containing poetry which the motion of a journey emptied 
of their contents : is it from the vanity of being thought geniuses, 
or a mere mechanical imitation of the custom of others, that we 
are tempted to scrawl rhyme upon such places ?" 

M Whether vanity is the cause of our becoming rhymesters or 
not," answered Harley, " it is a pretty certain effect of it. An 
old man of my acquaintance, who deals in apothegms, used to 
say, That he had known few men without envy, few wits without 

6* 



66 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

ill-nature, and no poet without vanity ; and I believe his remark 
is a pretty just one : vanity has been immemorially the charter 
of poets. In this the ancients were more honest than we are : 
the old poets frequently make boastful predictions of the immor- 
tality their works will obtain for them ; ours, in their dedications 
and prefatory discourses, employ much eloquence to praise their 
patrons, and much seeming modesty to condemn themselves, or 
at least to apologize for their productions to the world : but this, 
in my opinion, is the more assuming manner of the two ; for of 
all the garbs I ever saw Pride put on, that of her humility is to 
me the most disgusting." 

" It is natural enough for a poet to be vain," said the stranger : 
" the little worlds which he raises, the inspiration which he 
claims, may easily be productive of self-importance ; though 
that inspiration is fabulous, it brings on egotism, which is always 
the parent of vanity." 

" It may be supposed," answered Harley, " that inspiration 
of old was an article of religious faith ; in modern times it may 
be translated, a propensity to compose ; and I believe it is not 
always most readily found where the poets have fixed its resi- 
dence, amidst groves and plains, and the scenes of pastoral 
retirement. The mind may be there unbent from the cares of 
the world ; but it will frequently, at the same time, be unnerved 
from any great exertion : it will feel the languor of indolence, 
and wander without effort over the regions of reflection." 

" There is at least," said the stranger, " one advantage in 
the poetical inclination, that it is an incentive to philanthropy. 
There is a certain poetic ground, on which a man cannot tread 
without feelings that enlarge the heart : the causes of human 
depravity vanish before the romantic enthusiasm he professes, 
and many who are not able to reach the Parnassian heights, 
may yet approach so near as to be bettered by the air of the 
climate." 

" I have always thought so," replied Harley ; " but this is an 
argument with the prudent against it : they urge the danger of 
unfitness for the world." 

" I allow it," returned the other ; " but I believe it is not 
always rightfully imputed to the bent for poetry : that is only 
one effect of the common cause. — Jack, says his father, is in- 
deed no scholar ; nor could all the drubbings from his master 
ever bring him one step forward in his accidence or syntax : but 
I intend him for a merchant. — Allow the same indulgence to 
Tom. — Tom reads Virgil and Horace when he should be cast- 
ing accounts ; and but t'other day he pawned his great-coat for 
an edition of Shakspeare. — But Tom would have been as he is, 
though Virgil and Horace had never been born, though Shaks- 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 67 

peare had died a link-boy ; for his nurse will tell you, that when 
he was a child, he broke his rattle, to discover what it was that 
sounded within it ; and burnt the sticks of his go-cart, because 
he liked to see the sparkling of timber in the fire. — 'Tis a sad 
case ; but what is to be done ? — Why, Jack shall make a for- 
tune, dine on venison, and drink claret. — Ay, but Tom — Tom 
shall dine with his brother, when his pride will let him ; at other 
times he shall bless God over a half-pint of ale and a Welsh- 
rabbit ; and both shall go to heaven as they may. — That's a 
poor prospect for Tom, says the father. — To go to heaven ! I 
cannot agree with him." 

" Perhaps," said Harley, " we now-a-days discourage the 
romantic turn a little too much. Our boys are prudent too soon. 
Mistake me not, I do not mean to blame them for want of levity 
or dissipation ; but their pleasures are those of hackneyed vice, 
blunted to every finer emotion by the repetition of debauch ; 
and their desire of pleasure is warped to the desire of wealth, 
as the means of procuring it. The immense riches acquired 
by individuals have erected a standard of ambition, destructive 
of private morals and of public virtue. The weaknesses of vice 
are left us ; but the most allowable of our failings we are taught 
to despise. Love, the passion most natural to the sensibility 
of youth, has lost the plaintive dignity it once possessed, for the 
unmeaning simper of a dangling coxcomb ; and the only serious 
concern, that of a dowry, is settled, even amongst the beardless 
leaders of the dancing-school. The Frivolous and the Interested 
(might a satirist say) are the characteristical features of the age ; 
they are visible even in the essays of our philosophers. They 
laugh at the pedantry of our fathers, who complained of the 
times in which they lived ; they are at pains to persuade us how 
much those were deceived ; they pride themselves .in defending 
things as they find them, and in exploding the barren sounds 
which had been reared into motives for action. To this their 
style is suited ; and the manly tone of reason is exchanged for 
perpetual efforts at sneer and ridicule. This I hold to be an 
alarming crisis in the corruption of a state ; when not only is 
virtue declined, and vice prevailing, but when the praises of virtue 
are forgotten, and the infamy of vice unfelt." 

They soon after arrived at the next inn upon the route of the 
stage-coach, when the stranger told Harley, that his brother's 
house, to which he was returning, lay at no great distance, and 
he must therefore unwillingly bid him adieu. 

" I should like," said Harley, taking his hand, " to have some 
word to remember so much seeming worth by : my name is 
Harley." — " I shall remember it," answered the old gentleman, 
u in my prayers ; mine is Silton." 



68 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

And Silton indeed it was ! Ben Silton himself! Once more, 
my honored friend, farewell ! — Born to be happy without the 
world, to that peaceful happiness which the world has not to 
bestow ! Envy never scowled on thy life, nor hatred smiled on 
thy grave. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

He meets an old Acquaintance. 

When the stage-coach arrived at the place of its destination, 
Harley began to consider how he should proceed the remaining 
part of his journey. He was very civilly accosted by the master 
of the inn, who offered to accommodate him either with a post- 
chaise or horses, to any distance he had a mind ; but as he did 
things frequently in a way different from what other people call 
natural, he refused these offers, and set out immediately a-foot, 
having first put a spare shirt in his pocket, and given directions 
for the forwarding of his portmanteau. This was a method of 
travelling which he was accustomed to take ; it saved the trouble 
of provision for any animal but himself, and left him at liberty 
to choose his quarters, either at an inn, or at the first cottage in 
which he saw a face he liked : nay, when he was not peculiarly 
attracted by the reasonable creation, he would sometimes con- 
sort with a species of inferior rank, and lay himself down to 
sleep by the side of a rock, or on the banks of a rivulet. He 
did few things without a motive, but his motives were rather 
eccentric : and the usual and expedient were terms which he 
held to be very indefinite, and which, therefore, he did not always 
apply to the sense in which they are commonly understood. 

The sun was now in his decline, and the evening remarkably 
serene, when he entered a hollow part of the road, which winded 
between the surrounding banks, and seamed the sward in differ- 
ent lines, as the choice of travellers had directed them to tread 
it. It seemed to be little frequented now, for some of those had 
partly recovered their former verdure. The scene was such as 
induced Harley to stand and enjoy it ; when, turning round, his 
notice was attracted by an object, which the fixture of his eye 
on the spot he walked had before prevented him from observing. 

An old man, who, from his dress, seemed to have been a 
soldier, lay fast asleep on the ground ; a knapsack rested on a 
stone at his right hand, while his staff' and brass-hilted sword 
were crossed at his left. 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 69 

Harley looked on him with the most earnest attention. He 
was one of those figures which Salvator would have drawn ; nor 
was the surrounding scenery unlike the wildness of that painter's 
back-grounds. The banks on each side were covered with 
fantastic shrub-wood, and at a little distance, on the top of one 
of them, stood a finger-post, to mark the directions of two roads 
which diverged from the point where it was placed. A rock, 
with some dangling wild flowers, jutting out above where the 
soldier lay ; on which grew the stump of a large tree, white with 
age, and a single twisted branch shaded his face as he slept. 
His face had the marks of manly comeliness impaired by time ; 
his forehead was not altogether bald, but his hairs might have 
been numbered ; while a few white locks behind crossed the 
brown of his neck with a contrast the most venerable to a mind 
like Harley's. "Thou art old," said he to himself; "but age 
has not brought thee rest for its infirmities : I fear those silver 
hairs have not found shelter from thy country, though that neck 
has been bronzed in its service." The stranger waked. He 
looked at Harley with the appearance of some confusion : it was 
a pain the latter knew too well to think of causing in another ; 
he turned and went on. The old man re-adjusted his knap- 
sack, and followed in one of the tracks on the opposite side 
of the road. 

When Harley heard the tread of his feet behind him, he could 
not help stealing back a glance at his fellow-traveller. He 
seemed to bend under the weight of his knapsack ; he halted in 
his walk, and one of his arms was supported by a sling, and lay 
motionless across his breast. He had that steady look of sor- 
row, which indicates that its owner has gazed upon his griefs 
till he has forgotten to lament them ; yet not without those 
streaks of complacency, which a good mind will sometimes 
throw into the countenance, through all the incumbent load of its 
depression. 

He had now advanced nearer to Harley, and, with an uncer- 
tain sort of voice, begged to know what it was o'clock ; " I 
fear," said he, " sleep has beguiled me of my time, and I shall 
hardly have light enough left to carry me to the end of my 
journey." " Father !" said Harley, (who by this time found the 
romantic enthusiasm rising within him,) " how far do you mean 
to go V 1 " But a little way, Sir," returned the other ; " and in- 
deed it is but a little way I can manage now : 'tis just four miles 
from the height to the village, whither I am going." " I am 
going thither too," said Harley ; " we may make the road 
shorter to each other. You seem to have served your country, 
Sir, to have served it hardly, too ; 'tis a character I have the 
highest esteem for. — I would not be impertinently inquisitive 5 



70 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

but there is that in your appearance which excites my curiosity 
to know something more of you : in the mean time, suffer me 
to carry that knapsack." 

The old man gazed on him ; a tear stood in his eye ! " Young 
gentleman," said he, " you are too good : may Heaven bless 
you for an old man's sake, who has nothing but his blessing to 
give ! but my knapsack is so familiar to my shoulders, that I 
should walk the worse for wanting it ; and it would be trouble- 
some to you, who have not been used to its weight." " Far 
from it," answered Harley, " I should tread the lighter ; it would 
be the most honorable badge I ever wore." 

" Sir," said the stranger, who had looked earnestly in Harley's 
face during the last part of his discourse, " is not your name 
Harley?" " It is," replied he ; "I am ashamed to say I have 
forgotten yours." " You may well have forgotten my face," 
said the stranger ; — " 'tis a long time since you saw it ; but 
possibly you may remember something of old Edwards." — 
" Edwards !" cried Harley, " oh ! heavens !" and sprung to 
embrace him ; " let me clasp those knees on which I have sat 
so often : Edwards ! — I shall never forget that fireside, round 
which I have been so happy ! But where, where have you been? 
where is Jack 1 where is your daughter ? How has it fared 
with them, when fortune, I fear, has been so unkind to you ?" — 
" 'Tis a long tale," replied Edwards ; " but I will try to tell it 
you as we walk. 

" When you were at school in the neighborhood, you remem- 
ber me at South-hill : that farm had been possessed by my 
father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, which last was a 
younger brother of that very man's ancestor, who is now lord 
of the manor. I thought I managed it as they had done, with 
prudence : I paid my rent regularly as it became due, and had 
always as much behind as gave bread to me and my children. 
But my last lease was out soon after you left that part of the 
country ; and the squire, who had lately got a London attorney 
for his steward, would not renew it, because, he said, he did not 
choose to have any farm under 300/. a-year value on his estate ; 
but offered to give me the preference on the same terms with 
another, if I chose to take the one he had marked out, of which 
mine was a part. 

" What could I do, Mr. Harley 1 I feared the undertaking 
was too great for me ; yet to leave, at my age, the house I had 
lived in from my cradle ! I could not, Mr. Harley, I could not ; 
there was not a tree about it that I did not look on as my father, 
my brother, or my child : so I even ran the risk, and took the 
squire's offer of the whole. But I had soon reason to repent 
oi my bargain ; the steward had taken care that my former farm 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 71 

should be the best land of the division : I was obliged to hire 
more servants, and I could not have my eye over them all ; 
some unfavorable seasons followed one another, and I found my 
affairs entangling on my hands. To add to my distress, a con- 
siderable corn-factor turned bankrupt with a sum of mine in his 
possession : I failed paying my rent so punctually as I was 
wont to do, and the same steward had my stock taken in exe- 
cution in a few days after. So, Mr. Harley, there was an end 
of my prosperity. However, there was as much produced from 
the sale of my effects as paid my debts and saved me from a 
jail : I thank God I wronged no man, and the world could never 
charge me with dishonesty. 

" Had you seen us, Mr. Harley, when we were turned out 
of South-hill, I am sure you would have wept at the sight. You 
remember old Trusty, my shag house-dog ; I shall never forget 
it while I live ; the poor creature was blind with age, and could 
scarce crawl after us to the door : he went, however, as far as 
the gooseberry-bush, which you may remember stood on the left 
side of the yard ; he was wont to bask in the sun there : when 
he had reached that spot, he stopped ; we went on : I called to 
him ; he wagged his tail, but did not stir : I called again ; he 
lay down : I whistled, and cried Trusty ; he gave a short howl, 
and died ! — I could have lain down and died too ; but God gave 
me strength to live for my children." 

The old man now paused a moment to take breath. He 
eyed Harley's face ; it was bathed with tears : the story was 
grown familiar to himself; he dropped one tear, and no more. 

" Though I was poor," continued he, " I was not altogether 
without credit. A gentleman in the neighborhood, who had a 
small farm unoccupied at the time, offered to let me have it, on 
giving security for the rent ; which I made shift to procure. It 
was a piece of ground which required management to make any 
thing of; but it was nearly within the compass of my son's labor 
and my own. We exerted all our industry to bring it into some 
heart. We began to succeed tolerably, and lived contented on 
its produce, when an unlucky accident brought us under the 
displeasure of a neighboring justice of the peace, and broke all 
our family happiness again. 

" My son was a remarkable good shooter ; he had always 
kept a pointer on our former farm, and thought no harm in doing 
so now ; when, one day, having sprung a covey of partridges, 
in our own ground, the dog, of his own accord, followed them 
into the justice's. My son laid down his gun, and went after 
his dog to bring him back : the game-keeper, who had marked 
the birds, came up, and, seeing the pointer, shot him, just as my 
son approached. The creature fell : my son ran up to him : he 



72 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

died, with a complaining sort of cry, at his master's feet. Jack 
could bear it no longer, but, flying at the game-keeper, wrenched 
his gun out of his hand, and, with the butt end of it, felled him 
to the ground. 

" He had scarce got home, when a constable came with a 
warrant, and dragged him to prison ; there he lay, for the justices 
would not take bail, till he was tried at the quarter-sessions for 
the assault and battery. His fine was hard upon us to pay ; 
we contrived, however, to live the worse for it, and make up 
the loss by our frugality. But the justice was not content with 
that punishment, and soon after had an opportunity of punishing 
us indeed. 

" An officer, with press-orders, came down to our county, 
and, having met with the justices, agreed, that they should pitch 
on a certain number, who could most easily be spared from the 
county, of whom he would take care to clear it : my son's name 
was in the justices' list. 

" 'Twas on a Christmas eve, and the birth-day, too, of my 
son's little boy. The night was piercing cold, and it blew a 
storm, with showers of hail and snow. We had made up a 
cheering fire in an inner room ; I sat before it in my wicker- 
chair, blessing Providence, that had still left a shelter for me 
and my children. My son's two little ones were holding their 
gambols around us ; my heart warmed at the sight : I brought 
a bottle of my best ale, and all our misfortunes were forgotten. 

" It had long been our custom to play a game at blindman's- 
buff on that night, and it was not omitted now ; so to it we fell, 
I, and my son, and his wife, the daughter of a neighboring farm- 
er, who happened to be with us at the time, the two children, 
and an old maid-servant, who had lived with me from a child. 
The lot fell on my son to be blindfolded. We had continued 
some time at our game, when he groped his way into an outer 
room, in pursuit of some of us, who, he imagined, had taken 
shelter there ; we kept snug in our places, and enjoyed his mis- 
take. He had not been long there, when he was suddenly 
seized from behind ; ' I shall have you now,' said he, and turned 
about. ' Shall you so, master V answered the ruffian, who had 
laid hold of him ; * we shall make you play at another sort of 
game by and by.' " — At these words, Harley started with a con- 
vulsive sort of motion, and, grasping Edwards' sword, drew it 
half out of the scabbard, with a look of the most frantic wildness. 
Edwards gently replaced it in its sheath, and went on with his 
relation. 

" On hearing these words in a strange voice, we all rushed 
out to discover the cause ; the room, by this time, was almost 
full of the gang. My daughter-in-law fainted at the sight ; the 



THE MAN OP FEELING. 73 

maid and I ran to assist her, while my poor son remained mo- 
tionless, gazing by turns on his children and their mother. We 
soon recovered her to life, and begged her to retire, and wait 
the issue of the affair ; but she flew to her husband, and clung 
round him in an agony of terror and grief. 

" In the gang was one of a smoother aspect, whom, by his 
dress, we discovered to be a sergeant of foot : he came up to 
me, and told me, that my son had his choice of the sea or land 
service, whispering, at the same time, that if he chose the land, 
he might get orl^ on procuring him another man, and paying a 
certain sum for his freedom. The money we could just muster 
up in the house, by the assistance of the maid, who produced, 
in a green bag, all the little savings of her service ; but the man 
we could not expect to find. My daughter-in-law gazed upon 
her children with a look of the wildest despair. * My poor in- 
fants !' said she, * your father is forced from you ; who shall now 
labor for your bread ? or must your mother beg for herself and 
you V I prayed her to be patient ; but comfort I had none to 
give her. At last, calling the sergeant aside, I asked him, i If I 
was too old to be accepted in place of my son? * Why, I don't 
know,' said he ; ' you are rather old, to be sure, but yet the 
money may do much.' I put the money in his hand ; and, 
coming back to my children, * Jack,' said I, ' you are free ; live 
to give your wife and these little ones bread ; I will go, my 
child, in your stead : I have but little life to lose, and if I staid, 
I should add one to the. wretches you left behind.' — 4 No,' 
replied my son, ' I am not that coward you imagine me ; Heav- 
en fordid that my father's gray hairs should be so exposed, while 
I sat idle at home ; I am young, and able to endure much, and 
God will take care of you and my family.' — ' Jack,' said I, 'I 
will put an end to this matter ; you have never hitherto diso- 
beyed me ; I will not be contradicted in this : stay at home, I 
charge you, and, for my sake, be kind to my children.' 

" Our parting, Mr. Harley, I cannot describe to you ; it was 
the first time we ever had parted : the very press-gang could 
scarce keep from tears ; but the sergeant, who had seemed the 
softest before, was now the least moved of them all. He con- 
ducted me to a party of new-raised recruits, who lay at a village 
in the neighborhood ; and we soon after joined the regiment. 
I had not been long with it, when we were ordered to the East 
Indies, where I was soon made a sergeant, and might have 
picked up some money, if my heart had been as hard as some 
others were ; but my nature was never of that kind, that could 
think of getting rich at the expense of my conscience. 

" Amongst our prisoners was an old Indian, whom some of 
our officers supposed to have a treasure hidden some where ; 

7 



74 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

which is no uncommon practice in that country. They pressed 
him to discover it. He declared he had none ; but that would 
not satisfy them ; so they ordered him to be tied to a stake, and 
suffer fifty lashes every morning, till he should learn to speak 
out, as they said. Oh ! Mr. Harley, had you seen him, as I 
did, with his hands bound behind him suffering in silence, while 
the big drops trickled down his shrivelled cheeks, and wet his 
gray beard, which some of the inhuman soldiers plucked in 
scorn ! I could not bear it, I could not for my soul ; and one 
morning, when the rest of the guard were out of the way, I 
found means to let him escape. I was tried by a court-martial 
for negligence on my post, and ordered, in compassion of my 
age, and having got this wound in my arm, and that in my leg, 
in the service, only to suffer three hundred lashes, and be turned 
out of the regiment ; but my sentence was mitigated, as to the 
lashes, and I had only two hundred. When I had suffered 
these, I was turned out of the camp, and had between three and 
four hundred miles to travel before I could reach a sea-port, 
without guide to conduct me, or money to buy me provisions 
by the way. I set out, however, resolved to walk as far as I 
could, and then to lay myself down and die. But I had scarce 
gone a mile, when I was met by the Indian whom I had deli- 
vered. He pressed me in his arms, and kissed the marks of 
the lashes on rriy back a thousand times ; he led me to a little 
hut, where some friend of his dwelt ; and, after I was recovered 
of my wounds, conducted me so far on my journey himself, 
and sent another Indian to guide me through the rest. When 
we parted, he pulled out a purse with two hundred pieces of 
gold in it : — ' Take this,' said he, ' my dear preserver, it is all 
I have been able to procure.' I begged him not to bring him- 
self to poverty for my sake, who should probably have no need 
of it long : but he insisted on my accepting it. He embraced 
me : — ' You are an Englishman,' said he, ' but the Great Spirit 
has given you an Indian heart ; may he bear up the weight of 
your old age, and blunt the arrow that brings it rest !' We 
parted, and not long after I made shift to get my passage to 
England. 'Tis but about a week since I landed, and I am croing 
to end my days in the arms of my son. This sum may be of 
use to him and his children ; 'tis all the value I put upon it. I 
thank Heaven, I never was covetous of wealth ; I never had 
much, but was always so happy as to be content with my 
little."— 

When Edwards had ended his relation, Harley stood a while 
looking at him in silence ; at last he pressed him in his arms, 
and when he had given vent to the fulness of his heart by a 
shower of tears, " Edwards," said he " let me hold thee to my 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 75 

bosom ; let me imprint the virtue of thy sufferings on my soul. 
Come, my honored veteran ! let me endeavor to soften the last 
days of a life, worn out in the service of humanity : call me 
also thy son, and let me cherish thee as a father." Edwards, 
from whom the recollection of his own sufferings had scarce 
forced a tear, now blubbered like a boy ; he could not speak 
his gratitude, but by some short exclamations of blessings upon 
Harley. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

He misses an old Acquaintance. — An Adventure consequent upon it. 

When they had arrived within a little way of the village they 
journeyed to, Harley stopped short, and looked steadfastly on 
the mouldering walls of a ruined house that stood on the road- 
side. " Oh, heavens !" he cried, " what do I see ! silent, un- 
roofed, and desolate ! Are all the gay tenants gone 1 Do I 
hear their hum no more ? Edwards, look there, look there ! 
the scene of my infant joys, my earliest friendships, laid waste 
and ruinous ! That was the very school where I was boarded 
when you were at South-hill ; 'tis but a twelvemonth since I 
saw it standing, and its benches filled with little cherubs : that 
opposite side of the road was the green on which they sported ; 
see it now ploughed up ! I would have given fifty times its value 
to have saved it from the sacrilege of the plough. 

" Dear Sir," replied Edwards, " perhaps they have left it 
from choice, and may have got another spot as good." — " They 
cannot," said Harley, " they cannot ; I shall never see the 
sward covered with its daisies, nor pressed by the dance of the 
dear innocents ; I shall never see that stump decked with the 
garlands which their little hands had gathered. These two long 
stones, which now lie at the foot of it, were once the supports 
of a hut I myself assisted to rear : I have sat on the sods within 
it, when we had spread our banquet of apples before us, and 
been more blest — Oh ! Edwards ! infinitely more blest than 
ever I shall be again." 

Just then a woman passed them on the road, and discovered 
some signs of wonder at the attitude of Harley, who stood, with 
his hands folded together, looking with a moistened eye on the 
fallen pillars of the hut. He was too much entranced in 



76 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

thought to observe her at all ; but Edwards civilly accosting 
her, desired to know, if that had not been the school-house, and 
how it came into the condition in which they now saw it? 
" Alack-a-day !" said she, " it was the school-house indeed ; 
but to be sure, Sir, the squire has pulled it down, because it 
stood in the way of his prospects." — " What ! how ! prospects ! 
pulled down !" cried Harley. " Yes, to be sure, Sir ; and the 
green, where the children used to play, he has ploughed up, be- 
cause, he said, they hurt his fence on the other side of it." — 
" Curses on his narrow heart," cried Harley, " that could vio- 
late a right so sacred ! Heaven blast the wretch ! 

' And from his derogate body never spring 
A babe to honor him !' 

But I need not, Edwards, I need not," recovering himself a 
little ; " he is cursed enough already : to him the noblest source 
of happiness is denied : and the cares of his sordid soul shall 
know it, while thou sittest over a brown crust, smiling on those 
mangled limbs that have saved thy son and his children !" " If 
you want any thing of the school-mistress, Sir," said the woman, 
" I can show you the way to her house." He followed her, 
without knowing whither he went. 

They stopped at the door of a snug habitation, where sat an 
elderly woman with a boy and a girl before her, each of whom 
held a supper of bread and milk in their hands. " There, Sir, 
is the school-mistress." — "Madam," said Harley, "was not 
an old venerable man school-master here some time ago V 9 
" Yes, Sir, he was : poor man ! the loss of his former school- 
house, I believe, broke his heart, for he died soon after it was 
taken down ; and as another has not yet been found, I have 
that charge in the mean time." — " And this boy and girl, I pre- 
sume, are your pupils'?" — " Ay, Sir, they are poor orphans, put 
under my care by the parish ; and more promising children I 
never saw." " Orphans !" said Harley. "Yes, Sir, of honest 
creditable parents as any in the parish ; and it is a shame for 
some folks to forget their relations, at a time when they have 
most need to remember them." — " Madam," said Harley, "let 
us never forget that we are all relations." He kissed the 
children. 

" Their father, Sir," continued she, " was a farmer here in 
the neighborhood, and a sober industrious man he was ; but 
nobody can help misfortunes : what with bad crops, and bad 
debts, which are worse, his affairs went to wreck ; and both he 
and his wife died of broken hearts. And a sweet couple they 
were, Sir ; there was not a properer man to look on in the 
country than John Edwards, and so indeed were all the Ed* 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 77 

wards's." "What Edwards's?" cried the old soldier hastily. 
** The Edwards's of South-hill ; and a worthy family they 
were." " South-hill !" said he, in a languid voice, and fell back 
into the arms of the astonished Harley. The school-mistress 
ran for some water, and a smelling-bottle, with the assistance of 
which they soon recovered the unfortunate Edwards. He 
stared wildly for some time ; then folding his orphan grand- 
children in his arms, " Oh ! my children, my children !" he 
cried, " have I found you thus ? My poor Jack ! art thou gone ? 
I thought thou shouldst have carried thy father's gray hairs to 
the grave ! and these little ones" — his tears choked his utter- 
ance, and he fell again on the necks of the children. 

" My dear old man !" said Harley, " Providence has sent you 
to relieve them ; it will bless me, if I can be the means of 
assisting you." — " Yes, indeed, Sir," answered the boy ; 
" father, when he was a-dying, bade God bless us ; and prayed, 
that if grandfather lived, he might send him to support us." — 
" Where did they lay my boy?" said Edwards. " In the Old 
Church yard," replied the woman, " hard by his mother." — " I 
will show it you," answered the boy ; " for I have wept over it 
many a time, when first I came among strange folks." He 
took the old man's hand, Harley laid hold of his sister's, and 
they walked in silence to the church yard. 

There was an old stone, with the corner broken off, and some 
letters, half covered with moss, to denote the names of the 
dead : there was a cyphered R, E. plainer than the rest : it was 
the tomb they sought. ** Here it is, grandfather," said the boy. 
Edwards gazed upon it without uttering a word : the girl, who 
had only sighed before, now wept outright : her brother sobbed, 
but he stifled his sobbing. " I have told sister," said he, « that 
she should not take it so to heart ; she can knit already, and I 
shall soon be able to dig ; we shall not starve, sister, indeed 
we shall not, nor shall grandfather neither." — The girl cried 
afresh : Harley kissed off her tears as they flowed, and wept 
between every kiss. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

He returns home— A description of his retinue. 

It was with some difficulty that Harley prevailed on the old 
man to leave the spot where the remains of his son were laid. 
At last, with the assistance of the school-mistress, he prevailed ; 



78 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

and she accommodated Edwards and him with beds in hei 
house, there being nothing like an inn nearer than the distance 
of some miles. 

In the morning, Harley persuaded Edwards to come with 
the children to his house, which was distant but a short day's 
journey. The boy walked in his grandfather's hand ; and the 
name of Edwards procured him a neighboring farmer's horse, 
on which a servant mounted, with the girl on a pillow before him. 

With this train Harley returned to the abode of his fathers : 
and we cannot but think, that his enjoyment was as great as 
if he had arrived from the tour of Europe, with a Swiss valet 
for his companion, and half a dozen snuff-boxes, with invisible 
hinges, in his pocket. But we take our ideas from sounds 
which folly has invented ; Fashion, Bon-ton, and Yertu, are the 
names of certain idols, to which we sacrifice the genuine 
pleasures of the soul : in this world of semblance, we are 
contented with personating happiness ; to feel it, is an art 
beyond us. 

It was otherwise with Harley ; he ran up stairs to his aunt, 
with the history of his fellow-travellers glowing on his lips. 
His aunt was an economist ; but she knew the pleasure of do- 
ing charitable things, and withal was fond of her nephew, and 
solicitous to oblige him. She received old Edwards, therefore, 
with a look of more complacency than is perhaps natural to 
maiden ladies of three score, and was remarkably attentive to 
his grandchildren : she roasted apples with her own hands for 
their supper, and made up a little bed beside her own for the 
girl. Edwards made some attempts towards an acknowledg- 
ment for these favors ; but his young friend stopped them in 
their beginnings. " Whosoever receiveth any of these chil- 
dren" — said his aunt ; for her acquaintance with her Bible was 
habitual. 

Early next morning, Harley stole into the room where 
Edwards lay : he expected to have found him a-bed ; but in 
this he was mistaken : the old man had risen, and was leaning 
over his sleeping grandson, with the tears flowing down his 
cheeks. At first he did not perceive Harley ; when he did, he 
endeavored to hide his grief, and crossing his eyes with his 
hand, expressed his surprise at seeing him so early astir. " I 
was thinking of you," said Harley, " and your children : I 
learned last night that a small farm of mine in the neighborhood 
is now vacant : if you will occupy it, I shall gain a good neigh- 
bor, and be able, in some measure, to repay the notice you took 
of me when a boy ; and as the furniture of the house is mine, 
it will be so much trouble saved." Edwards' tears gushed afresh, 
and Harley led him to see the place he intended for him. 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 



79 



The house upon this farm was indeed little better than a hut ; 
its situation, however, was pleasant ; and Edwards, assisted by 
the beneficence of Harley, set about improving its neatness and 
convenience. He staked out a piece of the green before for 
a garden, and Peter, who acted in Harley's family as valet, 
butler, and gardener, had orders to furnish him with parcels of 
the different seeds he chose to sow in it. I have seen his mas- 
ter at work in this little spot, with his coat off, and his dibble in 
his hand : it was a scene of tranquil virtue to have stopped an 
angel on his errands of mercy ! Harley had contrived to lead 
a little bubbling brook through a green walk in the middle of the 
ground, upon which he had erected a mill in miniature for the 
diversion of Edwards' infant grandson, and made shifts in its 
construction to introduce a pliant bit of wood, that answered 
with its fairy clack to the murmuring of the rill that turned it. 
I have seen him stand, listening to these mingled sounds, with 
his eye fixed on the boy, and the smile of conscious satisfaction 
on his cheek ; while the old man, with a look half turned to 
Harley, and half to Heaven, breathed an ejaculation of gratis 
tude and piety. 

Father of mercies ! I also would thank thee, that not only 
hast thou assigned eternal rewards to virtue, but that, even in 
this bad world, the lines of our duty and our happiness, are so 
frequently woven together. 



A FRAGMENT. 

The Man of Feeling talks of what he does not understand- An Incident. 

**** " Edwards," said he, " I have a proper regard for the 
prosperity of my country : every native of it appropriates to 
himself some share of the power or the fame, which, as a na- 
tion, it acquires ; but I cannot throw off the man so much, as 
to rejoice at our conquests in India. You tell me of immense 
territories subject to the English ; I cannot think of their pos- 
sessions, without being led to inquire, by what right they post 
sess them. They came there as traders, bartering the com- 
modities they brought, for others which their purchasers could 
spare ; and however great their profits were, they were then 
equitable. But what title have the subjects of another kingdom to 
establish an empire in India ? to give laws to a country where 
the inhabitants received them on the terms of friendly corn.. 



80 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

merce ? You say they are happier under our regulations than 
under the tyranny of their own petty princes. I must doubt it, 
from the conduct of those by whom these regulations have been 
made. They have drained the treasuries of Nabobs, who must 
fill them by oppressing the industry of their subjects. Nor is 
this to be wondered at, when we consider the motive upon which 
those gentlemen do not deny their going to India. The fame 
of conquest, barbarous as that motive is, is but a secondary 
consideration : there are certain stations in wealth, to which the 
warriors of the East aspire. It is there indeed where the wishes 
of their friends assign them eminence, and to that object the 
question of their country is pointed at their return. When shall 
I see a commander return from India in the pride of honorable 
poverty ? — You describe the victories they have gained ; they 
are sullied by the cause in which they fought : you enumerate 
the spoils of those victories ; they are covered with the blood 
of the vanquished ! 

" Could you tell me of some conqueror giving peace and 
happiness to the conquered 1 did he accept the gifts of their 
princes, to use them for the comfort of those whose fathers, 
sons, or husbands, fell in battle ? did he use his power to gain 
security and freedom to the regions of oppression and slavery 1 
did he endear the British name by examples of generosity, 
which the most barbarous or most depraved are rarely able to 
resist'? did he return with the consciousness of duty discharged 
to his country, and humanity to his fellow-creatures 1 did he 
return with no lace on his coat, no slaves in his retinue, no 
chariot at his door, and no burgundy at his table 1 — these were 
laurels which princes might envy — which an honest man would 
aot condemn !" 

" Your maxims, Mr. Harley, are certainly right," said Ed- 
wards. " I am not capable of arguing with you ; but I imagine 
there are great temptations in a great degree of riches, which 
it is no easy matter to resist : those a poor man like me cannot 
describe, because he never knew them ; and perhaps I have 
reason to bless God that I never did ; for then, it is likely, I 
should have withstood them no better than my neighbors. For 
you know, Sir, that it is not the fashion now, as it was in former 
times, that I have read of in books, when your great generals 
died so poor, that they did not leave wherewithal to buy them a 
coffin ; and people thought the better of their memories for it : 
if they did so now-a-days, I question if any body, except your- 
self, and some few like you, would thank them." 

" I am sorry," replid Harley, " that there is so much truth in 
what you say ; but, however the general current of opinion 
may point, the feelings are not yet lost that applaud benevo* 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 81 

lence, and censure inhumanity. Let us endeavor to strengthen 
them in ourselves ; and we who live sequestered from the 
noise of the multitude, have better opportunities of listening 
undisturbed to their voice." 

They now approached the little dwelling of Edwards. A 
maid-servant, whom he had hired to assist in the care of his 
grandchildren, met them a little way from the house : " There 
is a young lady within with the children," said she. Edwards 
expressed his surprise at the visit : it was, however, not the less 
true ; and we mean to account for it. 

This young lady, then, was no other than Miss Walton. She 
had heard the old man's history from Harley, as we have already 
related it. Curiosity, or some other motive, made her desirous 
to see his grandchildren ; this she had an opportunity of grati- 
fying soon ; the children, in some of their walks, having stroll- 
ed as far as her father's avenue. She put several questions to 
both ; she was delighted with the simplicity of their answers, 
and promised, that if they continued to be good children, and 
do as their grandfather bid them, she would soon see them 
again, and bring some present or other for their reward. This 
promise she had performed now : she came attended only by 
her maid, and brought with her a complete suit of green for the 
boy, and a chintz gown, a cap, and a suit of ribands, for his 
sister. She had time enough, with her maid's assistance, to 
equip them in their new habiliments before Harley and Edwards 
returned. The boy heard his grandfather's voice, and, with 
that silent joy which his present finery inspired, ran to the door 
to meet him : putting one hand in his, with the other pointing 
to his sister, " See," said he, " what Miss Walton has brought 
us !" — Edwards gazed on them. Harley fixed his eye on 
Miss Walton ; her's were turned to the ground ; — in Edwards' 
was a beamy moisture. — He folded his hands together — " I 
cannot speak, young lady," said he, "to thank you." Neither 
could Harley. There were a thousand sentiments ; but they 
gushed so impetuously on his heart, that he could not utter a 
syllable. **** 



82 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

CHAPTER XL. 

The Man of Feeling jealous. 

The desire of communicating knowledge or intelligence, ig 
an argument with those who hold, that man is naturally a social 
animal. It is, indeed, one of the earliest propensities we dis- 
cover ; but it may be doubted whether the pleasure (for plea- 
sure there certainly is) arising from it be not often more selfish 
than social : for we frequently observe the tidings of ill com- 
municated as eagerly as the annunciation of good. Is it that we 
delight in observing the effects of the stronger passions ? for we 
are all philosophers in this respect ; and it is, perhaps, amongst 
the spectators at Tyburn that the most genuine are to be found. 

Was it from this motive that Peter came one morning into 
his master's room with a meaning face of recital ? His mas- 
ter, indeed, did not at first observe it, for he was sitting with 
one shoe buckled, delineating portraits in the fire. " I have 
brushed those clothes, Sir, as you ordered me." Harley nod- 
ded his head ; but Peter observed that his hat wanted brushing 
too : his master nodded again. At last Peter bethought him, 
that the fire needed stirring ; and taking up the poker, demol- 
ished the turbaned head of a Saracen, while his master was 
seeking out a body for it. " The morning is main cold, Sir," 
said Peter. — " Is it?" said Harley. — "Yes, Sir. I have been 
as far as Tom Dowson's to fetch some barberries he had picked 
for Mrs. Margery. There was a rare junketting last night at 
Thomas's among Sir Harry Benson's servants; he lay at Squire 
Walton's, but he would not surfer his servants to trouble the 
family : so, to be sure, they were all at Tom's, and had a fiddle 
and a hot supper in the big room where the justices meet about 
the destroying of hares and partridges, and them things ; and 
Tom's eyes looked so red and so bleared when I called him to 
get the barberries. — And I hear as how Sir Harry is going to 
be married to Miss Walton." " How ! Miss Walton mar- 
ried !" said Harley. " Why, it mayn't be true, Sir, for all that ; 
but Tom's wife told it me, and to be sure the servants told her, 
and their master told them, as I guess, Sir ; but it mayn't be 
true for all that, as I said before." — " Have done with your idle 
information," said Harley. " Is my aunt come down into the 
parlor to breakfast?"—" Yes, Sir."—" Tell her I'll be with her 
immediately." 

When Peter was gone, he stood with his eyes fixed on the 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 83 

ground, and the last words of his intelligence vibrating in his ears. 
— " Miss Walton married !" he sighed — and walked down stairs, 
with his shoe as it was, and the buckle in his hand. His aunt, 
however, was pretty well accustomed to those appearances of 
absence ; besides, that the natural gravity of her temper, which 
was commonly called into exertion by the care of her household 
concerns, was such as not easily to be discomposed by any cir- 
cumstance of accidental impropriety. She, too, had been in- 
formed of the intended match between Sir Harry Benson and 
Miss Walton. " I have been thinking," said she, " that they 
are distant relations : for the great-grandfather of this Sir Harry 
Benson, who was knight of the shire in the reign of Charles the 
First, and one of the cavaliers of those times, was married to a 
daughter of the Walton family." Harley answered dryly, that 
it might be so ; but that he never troubled himself about those 
matters. " Indeed," said she, " you are to blame, nephew, for 
not knowing a little more of them : before I was near your age, 
I had sewed the pedigree of our family in a set of chair-bottoms, 
that were made a present to my grandmother, who was a very 
notable woman, and had a proper regard for gentility, I'll assure 
you ; but now-a-days, it is money, not birth, that makes people 
respected ; the more shame for the times." 

Harley was in no very good humor for entering into a dis- 
cussion of this question ; but he always entertained so much 
filial respect for his aunt, as to attend to her discourse. 

" We blame the pride of the rich," said he, " but are not we 
ashamed of our poverty?" 

" Why, one would not choose," replied his aunt, " to make a 
much worse figure than one's neighbors ; but, as I was saying 
before, the times (as my friend Mrs. Dorothy Walton observes) 
are shamefully degenerated in this respect. There was, but 
t'other day, at Mr. Walton's, that fat fellow's daughter, the Lon- 
don merchant, as he calls himself, — though I have heard that he 
was little better than the keeper of a chandler's shop, — we were 
leaving the gentlemen to go to tea. She had a hoop, forsooth, 
as large and as stiff — and it showed a pair of bandy legs, as 

thick as two 1 was nearer the door by an apron's length, and 

the pert hussy brushed by me, as who should say, Make way for 
your betters, and with one of her London bobs — but Mrs. 
Dorothy did not let her pass with it ; for all the time of drinking 
tea, she spoke of the precedency of family, and the disparity 
there is between people who are come of something, and your 
mushroom-gentry, who wear their coats of arms in their purses." 

Her indignation was interrupted by the arrival of her maid 
with a damask table-cloth, and a set of napkins, from the loom, 
which had been spun by her mistress's own hand. There was 



, 



84 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

the family crest in each corner, and in the middle a view of the 
battle of Worcester, where one of her ancestors had been a cap- 
tain in the king's forces ; and with a sort of poetical license, in 
perspective, there was seen the Royal Oak, with more wig than 
leaves upon it. 

On all this the good lady was very copious, and took up the 
remaining intervals of filling up tea, to describe its excellencies 
to Harley ; adding, that she intended this as a present for his 
wife, when he should get one. He sighed, and looked foolish, 
and commending the serenity of the day, walked out into the 
garden. 

He sat down on a little seat which commanded an extensive 
prospect round the house. He leaned on his hand, and scored 
the ground with his stick ; " Miss Walton married !" said he ; 
" but what is that to me 1 May she be happy ! her virtues de- 
serve it ; to me, her marriage is otherwise indifferent : — I had 
romantic dreams ! they are fled ! — it is perfectly indifferent." 

Just at that moment, he saw a servant with a knot of ribands 
in his hat, go into the house. His cheeks grew flushed at the 
sight ! He kept his eyes fixed for some time on the door by 
which he had entered ; then, starting to his feet, hastily follow- 
ed him. 

When he approached the door of the kitchen, where he sup- 
posed the man had entered, his heart throbbed so violently, that, 
when he would have called Peter, his voice failed in the at- 
tempt. He stood a moment listening in this breathless state of 
palpitation : Peter came out by chance. " Did your honor want 
any thing V 9 — " Where is the servant that came just now from 
Mr. W r alton's V 9 — " From Mr. Walton's, Sir ! there is none of 
his servants here, that I know of." — " Nor of Sir Harry Ben- 
son's?" — He did not wait for an answer; but, having by this 
time observed the hat with its party-colored ornament hanging 
on a peg near the door, he pressed forward into the kitchen, and 
addressing himself to a stranger whom he saw there, asked him, 
with no small tremor in his voice, " If he had any commands for 
him V 9 The man looked silly, and said, " That he had nothing 
to trouble his honor with." — "Are not you a servant of Sir 
Harry Benson's V 9 — "No, Sir." — "You'll pardon me, young 
man ; I judged by the favor in your hat." — " Sir, I am his ma- 
jesty's servant, God bless him ! and these favors we always 
wear when we are recruiting." — "Recruiting!" His eyes 
glistened at the word : he seized the soldier's hand, and shaking 
k violently, ordered Peter to fetch a bottle of his aunt's best 
dram. The bottle was brought. " You shall drink the king's 
health," said Harley, " in a bumper." — " The king and your 
honor." — "Nay, you shall drink the king's health by itself; 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 85 

you may drink mine in another." Peter looked in his master's 
face, and filled with some little reluctance. " Now, to your mis- 
tress," said Harley ; " every soldier has a mistress." The man 
excused himself — " To your mistress ! you cannot refuse it." 
'Twas Mrs. Margery's best dram ! Peter stood with the bottle 
a little inclined, but not so as to discharge a drop ot its contents. 
"Fill it, Peter," said his master, "fill it to the brim." Peter 
filled it ; and the soldier, having named Sukey Simpson, de- 
spatched it in a twinkling. " Thou art an honest fellow," said 
Harley, " and I love thee ;" and shaking his hand again, desired 
Peter to make him his guest at dinner, and walked up into his 
room with a pace much quicker and more springy than usuaL 

This agreeable disappointment, however, he was not long 
suffered to enjoy. The curate happened that day to dine with 
him : his visits, indeed, were more properly to the aunt than the 
nephew ; and many of the intelligent ladies in the parish, who, 
like some very great philosophers, have the happy knack at ac- 
counting for every thing, gave out, that there was a particular 
attachment between them, which wanted only to be matured by 
some more years of courtship to end in the tenderest connexion. 
In this conclusion, indeed, supposing the premises to have been 
true, they were somewhat justified by the known opinion of the 
lady, who frequently declared herself a friend to the ceremonial 
of former times, when a lover might have sighed seven years at 
his mistress's feet, before he was allowed the liberty of kissing 
her hand. 'Tis true, Mrs. Margery was now about her grand 
climacteric ; no matter : that is just the age when we expect to 
grow younger. But I verily believe there was nothing in the 
report ; the curate's connexion was only that of a genealogist ; 
for in that character he was no ways inferior to Mrs. Margery 
herself. He dealt also in the present times ; for he was a poli- 
tician and a newsmonger. 

He had hardly said grace after dinner, when he told Mrs. 
Margery that she might soon expect a pair of white gloves, as 
Sir Harry Benson, he was very well informed, was just going 
to be married to Miss Walton. Harley spilt the wine he was 
carrying to his mouth. He had time, however, to recollect 
himself before the curate had finished the different particulars 
of his intelligence, and summing up all the heroism he was mas- 
ter of, filled a bumper, and drank to Miss Walton. " With all 
my heart," said the curate, " the bride that is to be." Harley 
would have said bride too ; but the word bride stuck in his 
throat. His confusion, indeed, was manifest : but the curate 
began to enter on some point of descent with Mrs. Margery, 
and Harley had very soon an opportunity of leaving them, while 
they were deeply engaged in a question, whether the name of 

8 



86 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

some great man in the time of Henry the Seventh, was Richard 
or Humphrey. 

He did not see his aunt again till supper ; the time between, 
he spent in walking, like some troubled ghost, round the place 
where his treasure lay. He went as far as a little gate that led 
into a copse near Mr. Walton's house, to which that gentleman 
had been so obliging as to let him have a key. He had just 
begun to open it, when he saw, on a terrace below, Miss Wal- 
ton, walking with a gentleman in a riding dress, whom he imme- 
diately guessed to be Sir Harry Benson. He stopped of a 
sudden ; his hand shook so much that he could hardly turn the 
key ; he opened the gate, however, and advanced a few paces. 
The lady's lap-dog pricked up its ears, and barked ; he stopped 
again- 

"The little doss and all, 



Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see they bark at me !" 

His resolution failed ; he slunk back, and locking the gate as 
softly as he could, stood on tiptoe looking over the wall till they 
were gone. At that instant a shepherd blew his horn ; the ro- 
mantic melancholy of the sound quite overcame him ! — it was 
the very note that wanted to be touched — he sighed ! he drop- 
ped a tear ! — and returned. 

At supper his aunt observed that he was graver than usual ; 
but she did not suspect the cause : indeed, it may seem odd that 
she was the only person in the family, who had no suspicion of 
his attachment to Miss Walton. It was frequently matter of 
discourse among the servants : perhaps her maiden coldness — 
but for those things we need not account. 

In a day or two he was so much master of himself as to be 
able to rhyme upon the subject. The following pastoral he left, 
some time after, on the handle of a tea-kettle, at a neighboring 
house where we were visiting ; and as I filled the tea-pot after 
him, I happened to put it in my pocket by a similar act of for- 
getfulness. It is such as might be expected from a man who 
makes verses for amusement. I am pleased with somewhat of 
good-nature that runs through it, because I have commonly ob- 
served the writers of those complaints to bestow epithets on 
their lost mistresses rather too harsh for the mere liberty of 
choice, which led them to prefer another to the poet himself: I 
do not doubt the vehemence of their passion ; but, alas ! the 
sensations of love are something more than the returns of 
gratitude. 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 87 



LAVINIA. 



A PASTORAL. 

Why steals from my bosom the sigh ? 

Why fixed is my gaze on the ground? 
Come, give me my pipe, and I'll try 

To banish my cares with the sound. 

Erewhile were its notes of accord 

With the smile of the flow'r-footed Muse 

Ah ! why, by its master implored 
Should it now the gay carol refuse ? 

'Twas taught by Lavinia's sweet smile, 
In the mirth-loving chorus to join 

Ah me! how unweeting the while 
Lavinia can never be mine ! 

Another, more happy, the maid 

Bv fortune is destined to bless 



Though the hope has forsook that betrayed, 
Yet why should I love her the less ? 

Her beauties are bright as the morn, 
With rapture I counted them o'er; 

Such virtues these beauties adorn, 

I knew her, and praised them no more, 

I termed her no goddess of love, 

I called not her beauty divine : 
These far other passions may prove, 

But they could not be figures of mine. 

It ne'er was apparell'd with art, 

On words it could never rely ; 
It reigned in the throb of my heart, 

It spoke in the glance of my eye. 

Oh, fool ! in the circle to shine 

That fashion's gay daughters approve, 

You must speak as the fashions incline j — 
Alas ! are there fashions in love ? 

Yet sure they are simple who prize 
The tongue that is smooth to deceive; 

Yet sure she had sense to despise 
The tinsel that folly may weave. 

When I talked, I have seen her recline 
With an aspect so. pensively sweet, — 

Though I spoke what the shepherds opine, 
A fop were ashamed to repeat. 

She is as soft as the dew-drops that fall 
From the lip of the sweet-scented pea; 

Perhaps when she smiled upon all, 
I have thought that she smiled upon me. 



88 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

But why of her charms should I tell ? 

Ah me ! whom her charms have undone . 
Yet I love the reflection too well, 

The painful reflection to shun. 

Ye souls of more delicate kind, 
Who feast not on pleasure alone, 

Who wear the soft sense of the mind, 
To the sons of the world still unknown j 

Ye know, though I cannot express, 
Why 1 foolishly doat on my pain, 

Nor will ye believe it the less 

That I have not the skill to complain. 

I lean on my hand with a sigh, 

My friends the soft sadness condemn ; 

Yet, methinks, though I cannot tell why, 
I should hate to be merry like them. 

When I walked in the pride of the dawn, 
Methought all the region look'd bright : 

Has sweetness forsaken the lawn ? 
For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight. 

When I stood by the stream, I have thought 
There was mirth in the gurgling soft sound j 

But now 'tis a sorrowful note, 

And the banks are all gloomy around ! 

I have laughed at the jest of a friend ; 

Now they laugh and I know not the cause, 
Though I seem with my looks to attend, 

How silly ! I ask what it was ! 

They sing the sweet song of the May, 
They sing it with mirth and with glee ; 

Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay, 
But now 'tis all sadness to me. 

Oh ! give me the dubious light 

That gleams through the quivering shade ; 

Oh ! give me the horrors of night 
By gloom and by silence arrayed ! 

Let me walk where the soft- rising wave 
Has pictured the moon on its breast : 

Let me walk where the new-covered grave 
Allows the pale lover to rest ! 

When shall I in its peaceable womb 
Be laid with my sorrows asleep ! 

Should Lavinia chance on my tomb — 
I could die if I thought she would weep. 

Perhaps, if the souls of the just 
Revisit these mansions of care, 

It may be my favorite trust 
To watch o'er the fate of the fair j 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 89 

Perhaps the soft thought of her hreast 

With rapture more favored to warm; 
Perhaps, if with sorrow oppressed, 

Her sorrow with patience to arm. 

Then ! then ! in the tenderest part 

May I whisper, "Poor Colin was -true;" 
And mark if a heave of her heart 

The thought of her Colin pursue. 



THE PUPIL. 



A FRAGMENT. 



* * * * « J5 UT as to the higher part of education, Mr. Harley, 
the culture of the mind ; — let the feelings be awakened, let the 
heart be brought forth to its object, placed in the light in which 
nature would have it stand, and its decisions will ever be just. 
The world 

Will smile, and smile, and be a villain • 

And the youth, who does not suspect its deceit, will be content 
to smile with it. — His teachers will put on the most forbidding 
aspect in nature, and tell him of the beauty of virtue. 

" I have not under these gray hairs, forgotten that I was once 
a young man, warm in the pursuit of pleasure, but meaning to 
be honest as well as happy. I had ideas of virtue, of honor, of 
benevolence, which I had never been at the pains to define ; 
but I felt my bosom heave at the thoughts of them, and I made 
the most delightful soliloquies. — " It is impossible," said I, 
" that there can be half so many rogues as are imagined." 

" I travelled, because it is the fashion for young men of my 
fortune to travel : I had a travelling tutor, which is the fashion 
too ; but my tutor was a gentleman, which is not always the 
fashion for tutors to be. His gentility indeed was all he had 
from his father, whose prodigality had not left him a shilling to 
support it. 

" * I have a favor to ask of you, my dear Mountford,' said my 
father, * which I will not be refused : You have travelled as be- 
came a man ; neither France nor Italy have made any thing of 
Mountford, which Mountford before he left England would 
have been ashamed of: my son Edward goes abroad, would 
you take him under your protection?' — He blushed — my fa- 
ther's face was scarlet — he pressed his hand to his bosom, as 
if he had said, — my heart does not mean to offend you. Mount- 
ford sighed twice — « I am a proud fool,' said he, ' and you will 

8* 



yU THE MAN OF FEELING. 

pardon it ; — there ! (he sighed again) I can hear of dependance 
since it is dependance on my Sedley.' — ' Dependance !' an- 
swered my father ; i there can be no such word between us : 
what is there in nine thousand pounds a year that should make 
me unworthy of Mountford's friendship?' — They embraced ; and 
soon after I set out on my travels, with Mountford for my 
guardian. 

" We were at Milan, where my father happened to have an 
Italian friend, to whom he had been of some service in England. 
The count, for he was of quality, was solicitous to return the 
obligation, by a particular attention to his son : we lived in his 
palace, visited with his family, were caressed by his friends, 
and I began to be so well pleased with my entertainment, that 
I thought of England as of some foreign country. 

" The count had a son not much older than myself. At that 
age a friend is an easy acquisition : we were friends the first 
night of our acquaintance. 

" He introduced me into the company of a set of young gen- 
tlemen, whose fortunes gave them the command of pleasure, 
and whose inclinations incited them to the purchase. After 
having spent some joyous evenings in their society, it became a 
sort of habit which I could not miss without uneasiness ; and 
our meetings, which before were frequent, were now stated and 
regular. 

" Sometimes in the pauses of our mirth, gaming was intro- 
duced as an amusement: it was an art in which I was a novice : 
I received instruction, as other novices do, by losing pretty 
largely to my teachers. Nor was this the only evil which 
Mountford foresaw would arise from the connexion I had 
formed ; but a lecture of sour injunctions was not his method 
of reclaiming. He sometimes asked me questions about the 
company ; but they were such as the curiosity of any indif- 
ferent man might have prompted : I told him of their wit, their 
eloquence, their warmth of friendship, and their sensibility of 
heart : ' And their honor,' said I, laying my hand on my breast, 
* is unquestionable.' Mountford seemed to rejoice at my good 
fortune, ana 1 begged that I would introduce him to their ac- 
quaintance. At the next meeting I introduced him accordingly. 

" The conversation was as animated as usual : they displayed 
all that sprightliness and good-humor which my praises had led 
Mountford to expect ; subjects too of sentiment occurred, and 
their speeches, particularly those of our friend the son of Count 
Respino, glowed with the warmth of honor, and softened into 
the tenderness of feeling. Mountford was charmed with his 
companions ; when we parted, he made the highest eulogiums 
upon them : * When shall we see them again]' said he, I was 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 91 

delighted with the demand, and promised to reconduct him on 
the morrow. 

" In going to their place of rendezvous, he took me a little 
out of the road, to see, as he told me, the performances of a 
young statuary. When we were near the house in which Mount- 
ford said he lived, a boy of about seven years old crossed us in 
the street. At sight of Mountford he stopped, and grasping his 
hand, ' My dearest Sir,' said he, « my father is likely to do well ; 
he will live to pray for you, and to bless you : yes, he will bless 
you, though you are an Englishman, and some other hard word 
that the monk talked of this morning, which I have forgot, but 
it meant that you should not go to heaven ; but he shall go to 
heaven, said I, for he has saved my father ; come and see him, 
Sir, that we may be happy.' — * My dear, I am engaged at pres- 
ent with this gentleman.' ' But he shall come along with you; 
he is an Englishman too, I fancy ; he shall come and learn how 
an Englishman may go to heaven.' Mountford smiled, and we 
followed the boy together. 

" After crossing the next street, we arrived at the gate of a 
prison. I seemed surprised at the sight ; our little conductor 
observed it. 'Are you afraid, Sir'?' said he; 4 I was afraid 
once too, but my father and mother are here, and I am never 
afraid when I am with them.' He took my hand, and led me 
through a dark passage that fronted the gate. When we came 
to a little door at the end, he tapped ; a boy, still younger than 
himself, opened it to receive us. Mountford entered with a look 
in which was pictured the benign assurance of a superior being. 
I followed in silence and amazement. 

" On something like a bed, lay a man, with a face seemingly 
emaciated with sickness, and a look of patient dejection ; a 
bundle of dirty shreds served him for a pillow ; but he had a 
better support — the arm of a female who kneeled beside him, 
beautiful as an angel, but with a fading languor in her counte- 
nance, the still life of melancholy, that seemed to borrow its 
shade from the object on which she gazed. There was a tear 
in her eye ; — the sick man kissed it off in its bud, smiling through 
the dimness of his own ! — when she saw Mountford, she crawled 
forward on the ground, and clasped his knees ; he raised her 
from the floor ; she threw her arms round his neck, and sobbed 
out a speech of thankfulness beyond the power of language. 

" * Compose yourself, my love,' said the man on the bed ; 
1 but he, whose goodness has caused that emotion, will pardon 
its effects.' * How is this, Mountford?' said I ; 4 what do I see? 
what must I do?' ' You see,' replied the stranger, 'a wretch, 
sunk in poverty, starving in prison, stretched on a sick bed ! but 
that is little : — there are his wife and children, wanting the bread 



92 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

which he has not to give them ! Yet you cannot easily imagine 
the conscious serenity of his mind ; in the gripe of affliction, 
his heart swells Math the pride of virtue ! it can even look down 
with pity on the man whose cruelty has wrung it almost to burst- 
ing. You are, I fancy, a friend of Mr. Mountford's; come 
nearer, and I'll tell you ; for, short as my story is, I can hardly 
command breath enough for the recital. The son of Count 
Respino (I started as if I had trod on a viper) has long had a 
criminal passion for my wife ; this her prudence had concealed 
from me ; but he had lately the boldness to declare it to myself. 
He promised me affluence in exchange for honor ; and threat- 
ened misery, as its attendant, if I kept it. I treated him with 
the contempt he deserved : the consequence was, that he hired 
a couple of bravoes, (for I am persuaded they acted under his 
direction,) who attempted to assassinate me in the street ; but 
I made such a defence as obliged them to fly, after having given 
me two or three stabs, none of which, however, were mortal. 
But his revenge was not thus to be disappointed ; in the little 
dealings of my trade I had contracted some debts, of which he 
had made himself master for my ruin. I was confined here at his 
suit, when not yet recovered from the wounds I had received ; 
this dear woman, and these two boys, followed me, that we 
might starve together ; but Providence interposed, and sent Mr. 
Mountford to our support : he has relieved my family from the 
gnawings of hunger, and rescued me from death, to which a 
fever, consequent on my wounds, and increased by the want of 
every necessary, had almost reduced me.' 

" Inhuman villain ! I exclaimed, lifting up my eyes to heaven. 
* Inhuman indeed !' said the lovely woman who stood at my 
side : * Alas ! Sir, what had we done to offend him? what had 
these little ones done, that they should perish in the toils of his 
vengeance V — I reached a pen which stood in the inkstand at 
the bedside. — ' May I ask what is the amount of the sum for 
which you are imprisoned? — ' I was able,' he replied, * to pay 
all but five hundred crowns.' I wrote a draught on the banker 
with whom I had credit from my father for twenty-five hun- 
dred, and presenting it to the stranger's wife, * You will receive, 
Madam, on presenting this note, a sum more than sufficient for 
your husband's discharge ; the remainder I leave for his in- 
dustry to improve.' I would have left the room : each of them 
laid hold of one of my hands ; the children clung to my coat : 
— Oh ! Mr. Harley, methinks I feel their gentle violence at this 
moment ; it beats here with delight inexpressible ! — ' Stay, Sir,' 
said he, 4 1 do not mean attempting to thank you ; (he took a 
pocket-book from under his pillow ;) let me but know what name 
I shall place here next to Mr. Mountford V — ' Sedley' — he wr\t 



. 



THE MAN OP FEELING. 93 

it down — * An Englishman too, I presume.' — ' He shall go to 
heaven notwithstanding,' said the boy who had been our guide. 
It began to be too much for me ; I squeezed his hand that was 
clasped in mine ; his wife's I pressed to my lips, and burst from 
the place, to give vent to the feelings that labored within me. 
1 Oh ! Mountford !' said I, when he had overtaken me at the 
door : ' It is time,' replied he, ' that we should think of our 
appointment ; young Respino and his friends are awaiting us.' 
— ' Damn him, damn him !' said I ; 'let us leave Milan in- 
stantly ; but soft — I will be calm ; Mountford, your pencil.' 
I wrote on a slip of paper, 

" To Signor Respino. 

14 When you receive this, I am at a distance from Milan. 
Accept of my thanks for the civilities I have received from you 
and your family. As to the friendship with which you were 
pleased to honor me, the prison, which I have just left, has 
exhibited a scene to cancel it for ever. You may possibly be 
merry with your companions at my weakness, as I suppose 
you will term it. I give you leave for derision : you may 
affect a triumph ; I shall feel it. 

44 Edward Sedley." 

" ' You may send this if you will,' said Mountford coolly ; 
* but still Respino is a man of honor ; the world will continue 
to call him so.' — 'It is probable,' I answered, ' they may ; I 
envy not the appellation. If this is the world's honor, if these 
men are the guides of its manners' — * Tut !' said Mountford, 
4 do you eat macaroni V " — 

******** 

[At this place had the greatest depredations of the curate 
begun. There were so very few connected passages of the 
subsequent chapters remaining, that even the partiality of an 
editor could not offer them to the public. I discovered, from 
some scattered sentences, that they were of much the same 
tenor with the preceding ; recitals of little adventures, in which 
the dispositions of a man, sensible to judge, and still more warm 
to feel, had room to unfold themselves. Some instruction, and 
some example, I make no doubt they contained ; but it is likely 
that many of those, whom chance has led to a perusal of what I 
have already presented, may have read it with little pleasure, 
and will feel no disappointment from the want of those parts 
which I have been unable to procure : to such as may have 
expected the intricacies of a novel, a few incidents in a life 
undistinguished, except by some features of the heart, cannot 
have afforded much entertainment. 

Harley's own story, from the mutilated passages I have men* 



94 THE MAN OF PEELING. 

tioned, as well as from some inquiries I was at the trouble of 
making in the country, I found to have been simple to excess. 
His mistress, I could perceive, was not married to Sir Harry 
Benson : but it would seem, by one of the following chapters, 
which is still entire, that Harley had not profited on the occa- 
sion by making any declaration of his own passion, after those 
of the other had been unsuccessful. The state of his health, 
for some part of this period, appears to have been such as to 
forbid any thoughts of that kind : he had been seized with a 
very dangerous fever, caught by attending old Edwards in one 
of an infectious kind. From this he had recovered but imper- 
fectly, and though he had no formed complaint, his health was 
manifestly on the decline. 

It appears that the sagacity of some friend had at length 
pointed out to his aunt a cause from which this might be sup- 
posed to proceed, to wit, his hopeless love for Miss Walton ; for, 
according to the conceptions of the world, the love of a man of 
Harley's fortune for the heiress of four thousand pounds a year, 
is indeed desperate. Whether it was so in this case may be 
gathered from the next chapter, which, with the two subsequent, 
concluding the performance, have escaped those accidents that 
proved fatal to the rest.] 



CHAPTER LV. 

He sees Miss Walton, and is happy. 

Harley was one of those few friends whom the malevolence 
of fortune had yet left me ; I could not, therefore, but be sensi- 
bly concerned for his present indisposition ; there seldom passed 
a day on which I did not make inquiry about him. 

The physician who attended him had informed me the even- 
ing before, that he thought him considerably better than he had 
been for some time past. I called next morning to be con- 
firmed in a piece of intelligence so welcome to me. 

When I entered his apartment, I found him sitting on a couch, 
leaning on his hand, with his eye turned upwards in the attitude 
of thoughtful inspiration. His look had always an open be- 
nignity, which commanded esteem ; there was now something 
more — a gentle triumph in it. 

He rose, and met me with his usual kindness. When I gave 
him the good accounts I had had from his physician, " I am 
foolish enough," said he, " to rely but little, in this instance, 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 95 

\ipon physic : my presentiment may be false ; but I think I feel 
myself approaching to my end, by steps so easy, that they woo 
me to approach it. 

" There is a certain dignity in retiring from life at a time 
when the infirmities of age have not sapped our faculties. This 
world, my dear Charles, was a scene in which I never much 
delighted. I was not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the 
tlissipation of the gay ; a thousand things occurred, where I 
blushed for the impropriety of my conduct when I thought on 
the world, though my reason told me I should have blushed to 
have done otherwise. It was a scene of dissimulation, of re- 
straint, of disappointment. I leave it to enter on that state, 
which I have learned to believe is replete with the genuine 
happiness attendant upon virtue. I look back on the tenor of 
my life, with the consciousness of few great offences to account 
for. There are blemishes, I confess, which deform in some 
degree the picture. But I know the benignity of the Supreme 
Being, and rejoice at the thoughts of its exercise in my favor. 
My mind expands at the thought that I shall enter into the 
society of the blessed, wise as angels, with the simplicity of 
children." He had, by this time, clasped my hand, and found 
it wet by a tear which had just fallen upon it. His eye began 
to moisten too — we sat for some time silent. At last, with an 
attempt to a look of more composure, " There are some remem- 
brances," said Harley, " which rise involuntarily on my heart, 
and make me almost wish to live. I have been blessed with a 
few friends, who redeem my opinion of mankind. I recollect, 
with the tenderest emotion, the scenes of pleasure I have passed 
among them ; but we shall meet again, my friend, never to be 
separated. There are some feelings, which, perhaps, are too 
tender to be suffered by the world. The world is in general 
selfish, interested, and unthinking, and throws the imputation 
of romance, or melancholy, on every temper more susceptible 
than its own. I cannot think but in those regions which I con- 
template, if there is any thing of mortality left about us, that 
these feelings will subsist : they are called — perhaps they are — 
weaknesses here ; but there may be some better modifications 
of them in heaven, which may deserve the name of virtues." 
He sighed as he spoke these last words. He had scarcely 
finished them, when the door opened, and his aunt appeared, 
leading in Miss Walton. " My dear," says she, " here is Miss 
Walton, who has been so kind as to come and inquire for you 
herself." I could observe a transient glow upon his face. He 
rose from his seat — " If to know Miss Walton's goodness," 
said he, "be a title to deserve it, I have some claim." She 
begged him to resume his seat, and placed herself on the sofa 



96 THE MAN OF PEELING. 

beside him. I took my leave. Mrs. Margery accompanied 
me to the door. He was left with Miss Walton alone. She 
inquired anxiously about his health. " I believe," said he, "from 
the accounts which my physicians unwillingly give me, that they 
have no great hopes of my recovery." — She started as he spoke; 
but, recollecting herself immediately, endeavored to flatter him 
into a belief that his apprehensions were groundless. " I know," 
said he, " that it is usual with persons at my time of life to have 
these hopes, which your kindness suggests ; but I would not 
wish to be deceived. To meet death as becomes a man, is a 
privilege bestowed on few. I would endeavor to make it mine; 
nor do I think that I can ever be better prepared for it than 
ftoW : — it is that chiefly which determines the fitness of its ap- 
proach." " Those sentiments," answered Miss Walton, " are 
just ; but your good sense, Mr. Harley, will own, that life has 
its proper value. As the province of virtue, life is ennobled ; 
as such, it is to be desired. To virtue has the Supreme 
Director of all things assigned rewards enough even here to fix 
its attachment." 

The subject began to overpower her. Harley lifted his eyes 
from the ground — " There are," said he, in a very low voice, 
" there are attachments, Miss Walton" — His glance met hers 
— they both betrayed a confusion, and were both instantly with- 
drawn. — He paused some moments — " I am in such a state as 
calls for sincerity, let that also excuse it — it is perhaps the last 
time we shall ever meet. I feel something particularly solemn 
in the acknowledgment, yet my heart swells to make it, awed 
as it is by a sense of my presumption, by a sense of your per- 
fections" — He paused again — " Let it not offend you, to know 
their power over one so unworthy — it will, I believe, soon cease 
to beat, even with that feeling which it shall lose the latest. — 
To love Miss Walton could not be a crime ; — if to declare it is 
one — the expiation will be made." Her tears were now flowing 
without control. — " Let me entreat you," said she, "to have bet- 
ter hopes — Let not life be so indifferent to you ; if my wishes 
can put any value on it — I will not pretend to misunderstand 
you — I know your worth — I have known it long — I have es- 
teemed it — W T hat would you have me say 1 — I have loved it as 
it deserved." — He seized her hand — a languid color reddened 
his cheek — a smile brightened faintly in his eye. As he gazed 
on her, it grew dim, it fixed, it closed — He sighed, and fell back 
on his seat — Miss Walton screamed at the sight — His aunt and 
the servants rushed into the room — They found them lying 
motionless together. His physician happened to call at that 
instant. Every art was tried to recover them. With Mis3 
Walton they succeeded — but Harley was gone forever ! 



THE MAN OF FEELING. 97 

CHAPTER LVI. 

The emotions of the heart. 

I entered the room where his body lay ; I approached it 
with reverence, not fear : I looked ; the recollection of the past 
crowded upon me. I saw that form which, but a little before, 
was animated with a soul which did honor to humanity, stretched 
without sense or feeling before me. 'Tis a connexion we 
can not easily forget : — I took his hand in mine ; I repeated 
his name involuntarily ; — I felt a pulse in every vein at the 
sound. I looked earnestly in his face ; his eye was closed, his 
lip pale and motionless. There is an enthusiasm in sorrow 
that forgets impossibility ; I wondered that it was so. The 
sight drew a prayer from my heart : it was the voice of frailty 
and of man ! the confusion of my mind began to subside into 
thought ; I had time to weep ! 

I turned with the last farewell upon my lips, when I observed 
old Edwards standing behind me. I looked him full in the 
face ; but his eye was fixed on another object ; he pressed 
between me and the bed, and stood gazing on the breathless 
remains of his benefactor. I spoke to him I know not what ; 
but he took no notice of what I said, and remained in the same 
attitude as before. He stood some minutes in that posture, 
then turned and walked towards the door. He paused as he 
went ; he turned a second time : I could observe his lips move 
as he looked ; but the voice they would have uttered was lost. 
He attempted going again ; and a third time he returned as 
before. I saw him wipe his cheek ; then, covering his face 
with his hands, his breast heaving with the most convulsive 
throbs, he flung out of the room. 



THE CONCLUSION. 

He had hinted that he should like to be buried in a certain 
spot near the grave of his mother. This is a weakness ; but 
it is universally incident to humanity : 'tis at least a memorial 
for those who survive ; for some indeed a slender memorial will 
serve ; and the soft affections, when they are busy that way, 
will build their structures, were it but on the paring of a nail. 

9 



98 THE MAN OF FEELING. 

He was buried in the place he had desired. It was shaded 
by an old tree, the only one in the churchyard, in which was a 
cavity worn by time. I have sat with him in it, and counted 
the tombs. The last time we passed there, methought he looked 
wistfully on the tree : there was a branch of it, that bent towards 
us, waving in the wind ; he waved his hand, as if he mimicked 
its motion. There was something predictive in his look ! per- 
haps it is foolish to remark it ; but there are times and places 
when I am a child in those things. 

I sometimes visit his grave ; I sit in the hollow of the tree. 
It is worth a thousand homilies ; every noble feeling rises within 
me ! every beat of my heart awakens a virtue ! — but it will make 
you hate the world — No : there is such an air of gentleness 
around, that I can hate nothing ; but, as to the world — I pity 
the men of it. 



END OF THE MAN OF FEELING. 






PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER 

A PERIODICAL PAPER, 
PUBLISHED AT EDINBURGH IN THE YEARS 1785-86. 

tore. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 



[No. 4. Saturday, February, 26, 1785.] 
Laudator temporis acti. — Juvenal. 

a Get thee a place, for I must be idle," says Hamlet to 
Horatio at the play. It is often so with me at public places : I 
am more employed in attending to the spectators, than to the 
entertainment ; a practice which, in the present state of some of 
our entertainments, I frequently find very convenient. In me, 
however, it is an indolent, quiet sort of indulgence, which, if it 
affords some amusement to myself, does not disturb that of any 
other body, 

At an assembly at which I happened to be present a few nights 
ago, my notice was peculiarly attracted by a gentleman with what 
is called a fresh look for his age, dressed in a claret-colored 
coat, with gold buttons, of a cut not altogether modern, an em- 
broidered waistcoat with very large flaps, a major wig, long ruffles 
nicely plaited, (that looked, however, as if the fashion had come 
to them, rather than that they had been made for the fashion ;) 
his white silk stockings ornamented with figured clocks, and his 
shoes with high insteps, buckled with small round gold buckles. 
His sword, with a silver hilt somewhat tarnished, I might have 
thought only an article of his dress, had not a cockade in his hat 
marked him for a military man. It was some time before I was 

able to find out who he was, till at last my friend Mr. S 

informed me he was a very worthy relation of his, who had not 
been in town above twice these forty years ; that an accidental 
piece of business had lately brought him from his house in the 
country, and he had been prevailed on to look on the ladies of 
Edinburgh, at two or three public places, before he went home 
again, that he might see whether they were as handsome as their 
mothers and grandmothers, whom he had danced with at balls, 
and squired to plays and concerts, near half a century ago. 
" He was," continued my friend, " a professed admirer and 
votary of the sex; and, when he was a young man, fought three 

9* 



102 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

duels for the honor of the ladies, in one of which he was run 
through the body, but luckily escaped with his life. The lady, 
however, for whom he fought, did not reward her knight as she 
ought to have done, but soon after married another man with a 
larger fortune ; upon which he forswore society in a great mea- 
sure, and, though he continued for several years to do his duty 
in the army, and actually rose to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, 
mixed but little in the world, and has for a long space of time 
resided at his estate a determined bachelor with somewhat of 
misanthropy, and a great deal of good nature about him. If 
you please I will introduce you to him ; — Colonel Caustic, this 
is a very particular friend of mine, who solicits the honor of 
being known to you." The Colonel kissed me on both cheeks ; 
and seeming to take a liking to my face, we appeared mutually 
disposed to be very soon acquainted. 

Our conversation naturally began on the assembly, which I 
observed to be a full one. " Why, yes," said the Colonel, "here 
is crowd enough, and to spare ; and yet your ladies seem to have 
been at a loss for partners. I suppose the greatest part of the 
men, or rather boys, whom I see now standing up to dance, have 
been brought in to make up a set, as people in the country 
sometimes fill up the places in a dance with chairs, to help them 
to go through the figure. But as I came too late for the min- 
uets, I presume the dressed gentlemen walked up stairs after 
they were ended. " "Why, Sir, there are now-a-day no min- 
uets." " No minuets !" (looking for a while at the company 
on the floor;) — "I don't wonder at it." "Why, perhaps, 
Colonel," said I, "these young gentlemen have not quite an 
aspect serious enough for the pas grave ; and yet yonder is one 
standing with his back to the fire — " "Why, yes, there is 
something of gravity, of almost melancholy, on his face." 
" Yes, melancholy and gentleman-like," said I, " as Master Ste- 
phen in the play has it." "Why, that young man, Sir, — now 
that I have observed him closer, — with that roll of handkerchief 
about his neck, his square-cut striped vest, his large metal but- 
tons, and nankeen breeches,— Why, Sir, 'tis a stable-boy out 
of place !" 

" Pray, who are those gentlemen," said Colonel Caustic, 
" who have ranged themselves in a sort of phalanx at the other 
end of the room, and seem like the devil in Milton, to carry stern 
defiance on their brow ?" — " I have not the honor of there ac- 
quaintance," I replied: "but some of them, I presume, from the 
cockades in their hats," — "You do not say so," interrupted the 
Colonel. "Is that the military air of the present day? But you 
must be mistaken ; they cannot be real soldiers : militia, or 
train-band subalterns, believe me, who, having neither seen ser- 






PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 103 

vice nor good company, contrive to look fierce, in order to avoid 
looking sheepish. I remember indeed of old, some of our boys 
used to put on that fierce air in coffee-houses and taverns ; but 
they could never dream of wearing it before the ladies." — " I 

think, however," said Mr. S , smiling, " the ladies don't 

seem much afraid of them."—" Why, your ladies," answered 
the Colonel, " to say truth, have learned to look people in the 
face. During the little while I have been in town, I have met 
with some in my walks, in great coats, riding hats, and rattans, 
whom I could not show an eye to ; but I am newly come from 
the country ; I shall keep a better countenance by and by. 

At that moment a lady and her party, for whose appearance 
the dancers were waiting, were just entering the room, and 
seemed in a great hurry to get forward. Their progress, how- 
ever, was a good deal impeded by a tall stout young man, who 
had taken his station just at the threshold, and leaning his back 
against one of the doorposts, with his right foot placed firm on 
the end of a bench, was picking his teeth with a perfect noncha- 
lance to every thing around him. I saw the Colonel fasten a 
very angry look on him, and move his hand with a sort of invol- 
untary motion towards my cane. The ladies had now got 
through the defile, and we stood back to make way for them. 
" Was there ever such a brute V 9 said Colonel Caustic. The 
young gentleman stalked up to the place where we were stand- 
ing, put up his glass to his eye, looked hard at the Colonel, and 
then — put it down again. The Colonel took snuff. 

" Our sex," said I, " Colonel, is not perhaps improved in its 
public appearance : but I think you will own the other is not less 
beautiful than it was." He cast his eye round for a few minutes 
before he answered me. "Why, yes," said he, " Sir, here are 
many pretty, very pretty girls. That young lady in blue is a 
very pretty girl. I remember her grandmother at the same age; 
she was a fine woman." — " But the one next her, with that fan- 
ciful cap, and the panache of red and white feathers, with that 
elegant form, that striking figure, is not she a fine woman ?" — 
"Why, no, Sir, not quite a fine woman ; not quite such a woman 
as a man, (raising his chest as he pronounced the word man, and 
pressing the points of his three unemployed fingers gently on his 
bosom,) as a man would be proud to stake his life for." 

" But in short, Sir," continued he, — " I speak to you because 
you look like one that can understand me. — There is nothing 
about a woman's person merely (were she formed like the Venus 
de Medicis,) that can constitute a fine woman. There is some- 
thing in the look, the manner, the voice, and still more the si- 
lence, of such a one as I mean, that has no connexion with any 
thing material ; at least no more than just to make one think 



i 

J 



104 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

such a soul is lodged as it deserves. — In short, Sir, a fine wo- 
man — I could have shown you some examples formerly. — I 
mean, however, no disparagement to the young ladies here ; 
none upon my honor ; they are as well made, and if not better 
dressed, at least more dressed, than their predecessors ; and 
their complexions I think are better. But I am an old fellow, 
and apt to talk foolishly." 

" I suspect, Caustic," said my friend Mr. S , " you and I 

are not quite competent judges of this matter. Were the part- 
ners of our dancing days to make their appearance here, with 
their humble foretops and brown unpowdered ringlets" — "Why, 

what then, Mr. S V 9 — " Why, I think those high heads 

would overtop them a little, that's all." "Why, as for the pa- 
nache," replied the Colonel, " I have no objection to the orna- 
ment itself; there is something in the waving movement of it 
that is graceful, and not undignified ; but in every sort of dress 
there is a certain character, a certain relation which it holds to 
the wearer. Yonder now, you'll forgive me, Sir, (turning to 
me) yonder is a set of girls, I suppose, from their looks and 
their giggling, but a few weeks from the nursery, whose feathers 
are in such agitation, whisked about, high and low, on this side 
and on that" — "Why, Sir, 'tis like the Countess of Cassowar's 
menagerie, scared by the entrance of her lapdog." 

"As to dress indeed in general," continued the Colonel, "that 
of a man or woman of fashion should be such as to mark some 
attention to appearance, some deference to society. The young 
men I see here, look as if they had just had time to throw off 
their boots after a foxchase. But yet dress is only an acces- 
sory, that should seem to belong to the wearer, and not the 
wearer to it. Some of the young ladies opposite to us are so 
made up of ornaments, so stuck round with finery, that an ill- 
natured observer might say, their milliner had sent them hither, 
as she places her doll in her shop window, to exhibit her wares 
to the company." 

Mr. S was going to reply, when he was stopped by the 

noise of a hundred tongues, which approached like a gathering 
storm from the card room. 'Twas my Lady Rumpus, with a 
crowd of women and a mob of men in her suite. They were 
people of too much consequence to have any of that deference 
for society which the Colonel talked of. My nerves and those 

of my friend S , though not remarkably weak, could barely 

stand their approach ; but Colonel Caustic's were quite overpow- 
ered. — We accompanied him in his retreat out of the dancing 
room, and after drinking a dish of tea, by way of sedative, as the 
physicians phrase it, he called for his chair, and went home. 

While we were sitting in the tea room, Mr. S undertook 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 105 

the apology of my Lady Rumpus and her followers. " We 
must make allowance," said he, " for the fashion of the times. 
In these days, precision of manners is exploded, and ease is the 
mode." — "Ease!" said the Colonel, wiping his forehead. " Why, 

in your days," said Mr. S , " and I may say in mine too, for 

I believe there is not much between us, were there not some- 
times fantastic modes, which people of rank had brought into 
use, and which were called genteel because such people prac- 
tised them, though the word might not just apply to them in the 

abstract 1 ?" — "I understand you, S ," said the Colonel; "there 

were such things ; some irregularities that broke out now and then. 
There were madcaps of both sexes, that would venture on 
strange things ; but they were in a style somewhat above the 
canaille ; ridiculous enough, I grant you, but not perfectly ab- 
surd ; coarse, it might be, but not downright vulgar. In all 
ages, I suppose, people of condition did sometimes entrench 
themselves behind their titles or their high birth, and committed 
offences against what lesser folks would call decorum, and yet 
were allowed to be well bred all the while ; were sometimes a 
little gross and called it witty ; and a little rude, and called it 
raillery : but 'twas false coinage, and never passed along. In- 
deed, I have generally remarked, that people did so only because 
they could not do better ; 'tis like pleading privilege for a debt 
which a man's own funds do not enable him to pay. A great 
man may perhaps be well bred in a manner which little people 
do not understand ; but, trust me, he is a greater man who is 
well bred in a manner that every body understands." 



[No. 6. Saturday, March 12, 1785.] 

A few mornings ago I was agreeably surprised with a very 
early call from my newly acquired friend Colonel Caustic. "'Tis 
on a foolish piece of business," said he, "I give you the trouble 
of this visit. You must know I had an appointment with your 

friend S to go to the play this evening, which a particular 

affair that has come across him will prevent his keeping ; and 
as a man, after making such an arrangement, feels it irksome to 
be disappointed, (at least it is so with an old methodical fellow 
like me,) I have taken the liberty of calling, to ask if you will 
suppl} his place. I might have had one or two other conduct- 
ors ; but it is only with certain people I choose to go to such 
places. Seeing a play, or indeed any thing else, won't do, at 



106 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

my time of life, either alone, or in company not quite to one's 
mind, 'lis like drinking a bottle of claret : the liquor is some- 
thing ; but nine-tenths of the bargain are in the companion with 
whom one drinks it." As he spoke this, he gave me his hand 
with such an air of cordiality — methought we had been ac- 
quainted these forty years ; — I took it with equal warmth, and 
assured him, truly, it would give me infinite pleasure to attend 
him. 

When we went to the theatre in the evening, and while I was 
reading the box-list, to determine where we should endeavor to 
find a place, a lady of the Colonel's acquaintance happening to 
come in, begged our acceptance of places in her box. We 
entered accordingly ; and I placed my old friend in a situation 
where I thought he could most conveniently command a view 
both of the company and of the stage. He had never been in 
our present house before, and allowed, that in size and conve- 
nience it exceeded the old one, though he would not grant so 
much as the lady and I demanded on that score. " I know," 
said he, " you are in the right ; but one don't easily get rid of 
first impressions : I can't make you conceive what a play was 
to me some fifty years ago, with what feelings I heard the last 
music begin, nor how my heart beat when it ceased." — "Why, 
it is very true, Colonel," said the lady, " one can't retain those 
feelings always." — "It is something," said I, "to have had them 
once." — "Why if I may judge from the little I have seen," replied 
the Colonel, " your young folks have no time for them now-a- 
days ; their pleasures begin so early, and come so thick." — 
"'Tis the way to make the most of their time." — " Pardon me, 
madam," said he, " I don't think so ; 'tis like the difference be- 
tween your hothouse asparagus and my garden ones ; the last 
have their green and their white ; but the first is tasteless from 
the very top." The lady had not time to study the allusion ; 
for her company began to come into the box, and continued 
coming in during all the first act of the comedy. On one side 
of Colonel Caustic sat a lady with a Lunardi hat ; before him 
was placed one with a feathered head-dress. Lunardi and the 
feathers talked and nodded to one another about an appointment 
at a milliner's next morning. I sat quite behind, as is my cus- 
tom, and betook myself to meditation. The Colonel was not 
quite so patient : he tried to see the stage, and got a flying vizzy 
now and then ; but in the last attempt, he got such a whisk from 
Miss Feathers on one cheek, and such a poke from the wires of 
Miss Lunardi on t'other, that he was fain to give up the matter 
of seeing ; as to hearing, it was out of the question. 

" I hope, Colonel, you have been well entertained," said the 
mistress of the box at the end of the act. "Wonderfully well," 






PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 107 

said the Colonel. — " That La Mash is a monstrous comical fel- 
low!" — " Oh, as to that, madam, I know nothing of the matter: 
in your ladyship's box one is quite independent of the players." 
— He made a sign to me : I opened the box door, and stood 
waiting for his coming with me. "Where are you going, Col- 
onel ?" said the lady, as he stepped over the last bench. " To 
the play, madam," said he, bowing and shutting the door. 

For that purpose we went to the pit, where, though it was 
pretty much crowded, we got ourselves seated in a very centri- 
cal place. There is something in Colonel Caustic's look and 
appearance, so much not of the form only but the sentiment of 
good breeding, that it is not easy to resist showing him any ci- 
vility in one's power. While we stood near the door, a party in 
the middle of one of the rows beckoned to us, and let us know, 
that we might find room by them ; and the Colonel, not without 
many scruples of complaisance, at last accepted the invitation. 

We had not long been in possession of our place before the 
second act began. We had now an opportunity of hearing the 
play ; as, though the conversation in the box we had left, which 
by this time was reinforced by several new performers, was 
about as loud as that of the players, we were nearer to the talk- 
ers in front, than to those behind us. When the act was over, 
I repeated Lady 's interrogatory as to the Colonel's enter- 
tainment. " I begin," said he, putting his snuffbox to his nose, 
" to find the inattention of my former box-fellows not quite so 
unreasonable." — " Our company of this season" said a brother 
officer, who sat near us, to Colonel Caustic, "is a very numerous 
one ; they can get up any new play in a week." — "I am not so 
much surprised, Sir," replied the Colonel, " at the number of 
your players, as I am at the number of the audience." — " Most 
of the new performers are drafts from the English and Irish 
stages." — " From the awkward division of them, I presume." — 
" You are a severe critic, Sir," replied the officer ; " but the 
house has been as full as you see it every night these three 
weeks." — " I can easily believe it," said the Colonel. 

As the play went on, the Colonel was asked his opinion of it 
by this gentleman, and one or two more of his neighbors. He 
was shy of venturing his judgment on the piece ; they were kind 
enough to direct him how to form one. " This is a very fa- 
vorite comedy, Sir, and has had a great run at Drury Lane." — 
"Why gentlemen," said he, "I have no doubt of the comedy 
being an excellent comedy, since you tell me so ; and to be 
sure those gentlemen and ladies who make up the dramatis per- 
son®, of it, say a number of good things, some of them not the 
worse for having been said last century by Joe Miller ; but I am 
often at a loss to know what they would be at, and wish for a little 



108 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

of my old friend Bayes's insinuation to direct me." — "You mean, 
Sir, that the plot is involved." — "Pardon me, Sir, not at all ; 'tis 
a perfectly clear plot, 'as clear as the sun in the cucumber,' as 
Anthonio in Venice Preserved says. The hero and heroine are 
to be married, and they are at a loss how to get it put off till the 
fifth act." — " You will see, Sir, how the last scene will wind it 
up." — " Oh ! I have no doubt, Sir, that it will end at the drop- 
ping of the curtain." 

Before the dropping of the curtain, however, it was not easy 
to attend to that winding up of the plot which was promised us. 
Between gentlemen coming into the house from dinner parties, 
and ladies going out of it to evening ones, the disorder in the 
boxes, and the calling to order in the pit, the business of the 
comedy was rather supposed than followed ; and the actors 
themselves seemed inclined to slur it a little, being too well bred 
not to perceive, that they interrupted the arrangement of some 
of the genteelest part of their audience. 

When the curtain was down I saw Colonel Caustic throw his 
eye round the house with a look which I knew had nothing to do 
with the comedy. After a silence of two or three minutes, in 
which I did not choose to interrupt him, " Amidst the various cal- 
culations of lives," said he, " is there any table for the life of a 
beauty ?" — " I believe not," said I, smiling ; " there is a fragility 
in that, which neither Price nor Maseres ever thought of applying 
figures to." — " 'Tis a sort of mortality," continued the Colonel, 
** which, at such a time as this, at the ending of some public en- 
tertainment, I have often thought on with a very melancholy feel- 
ing. An old bachelor like me, who has no girls of his own, 
except he is a very peevish fellow, which I hope I am not, looks 
on every one of these young creatures in some measure as a 
daughter ; and when I think how many children of that sort I 
have lost — for there are a thousand ways of a beauty's dying — 
it almost brings tears into my eyes. Then they are so spoiled 
while they do live. Here I am as splenetic as before I was 
melancholy. Those flower-beds we see, so fair to look on, — 
What useless weeds are suffered to grow up with them !" — " I 
do not think, Colonel, that the mere flower part is left unculti- 
vated." — "Why, even as to that, 'tis artificially forced before its 
time. A woman has a character even as a beauty. A beauty, 
a toast, a fine woman, merely considered as such, has a sort of 
professional character, which it requires some sense and accom- 
plishments to maintain. Now-a-days, there are so many irre- 
gulars who practise at fifteen, without a single requisite except 
mere outside ! — If we go a little farther, and consider a woman 
as something more than a beauty : when we regard the sex as 
that gentle but irresistible power that should mould the world to 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 109 

a finer form ; that should teach benignity to wisdom, to virtue 
grace, humanity to valor ; when we look on them in less eminent, 
but not less useful points of view, as those dii penates, those 
household deities, from whom man is to find comfort and protec- 
tion, who are to smooth the ruggedness of his labors, the irk- 
someness and cares of business ; who are to blunt the sting- of 
his sorrows, and the bitterness of his disappointments ! — You 
think me a fool for declaiming thus :" — " No, upon my soul, 
don't I ; I hope you think better of me than to suppose so." — 
" But I may come down from my declamation. Yonder are a 
set, fluttering in that box there, — young to be sure, but they will 
never be older, except in wrinkles — I don't suppose they have an 
idea in their heads beyond the color of a riband, the placing; of a 
feather, or the step of a cotillion ! — And yet they may get hus- 
bands." — " If it please God," said I. — " And be the mothers of 
the next generation." — "'Tis to be hoped." — "Well, well, old 
Caustic will be in his grave by that time !" 

There was what Shakspeare calls " a humorous sadness" in 
the thought, at which I did not well know whether to smile or to 
be sorrowful. But on the whole it was one I did not choose to 
press too close on. I feel that I begin to love this old man ex- 
ceedingly ; and having acquired him late, I hope I shall not lose 
him soon. 



[No. 31. Saturday, September 3, 1785.] 
Rura mihi et regui ploceant in vallibus omnes. — VirgiL 

One of the most natural, as well as one of the purest plea- 
sures, arising from the effect of external objects on the mind, is 
the enjoyment of rural prospects and rural scenery. The ideas 
of health, contentment, peace and innocence, are so interwoven 
with those of the country, that their connexion has become pro- 
verbial ; and the pleasures arising from it are not only celebrated 
by those who have experienced their sweets, but they are fre- 
quently supposed by thousands to whom they never were known, 
and described by many to whom they have long been forgotten. 

Of them, as of every other enjoyment, the value is enhanced 
by vicissitude ; and long exclusion is one great ingredient in the 
delight of their attainment. Few have been so unfortunate as 
to have an opportunity of forming a full idea of that pleasure 
which a great state-criminal is said to have felt, when, on being 

10 



110 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

taken from his dungeon, he saw the light, and breathed the open 
air, though but for that short space which conducted him to his 
scaffold. But it may in some measure be conceived from the 
satisfaction which most men have at times experienced in chang- 
ing the smoky atmosphere and close corrupted vapor of a 
crowded town, for the pure elastic breeze of a furze hill, or the 
balmy perfume of a bean field. 

With such increased enjoyment do I now feel the pleasures of 
the country, after being, as Milton says, " long in populous city 
pent." A very pressing invitation from my friend Colonel 
Caustic prevailed over that indolence, which was always a part 
of my constitution, and which I feel advanced life nowise tend 
to diminish. Having one day missed half a dozen acquain- 
tance, one after another, who I was informed had gone into the 
country, I came home in the evening, found a second . letter 
from the Colonel, urging my visit, read part of Virgil's second 
Georgic, looked from my highest window on the sun just about 
to set amidst the golden clouds of a beautiful western sky, and 
coming down stairs, I ordered my man to pack up my portman- 
teau, and next morning set out for my friend's country-seat, 
whence I now address my readers. 

To me, who am accustomed to be idle without being vacant, 
whose thoughts are rather wandering than busy, and whose 
fancy is rather various than vivid, the soft and modest painting 
of nature in this beautiful retirement of my friend's is particu- 
larly suited. Here where I am seated at this moment, in a little 
shaded arbor, with a sloping lawn in front, covered with some 
sheep that are resting in the noonday heat, with their lambkins 
around them ; with a grove of pines on the right hand, through 
which a scarcely stirring breeze is heard faintly to whisper; 
with a brook on the left, to the gurgle of which the willows on 
its side seem to listen in silence : this landscape, with a back 
ground of distant hills, on which one can discover the smoke of 
the shepherd's fire, rising in large lazy volumes to a thinly 
fleckered sky ; all this forms a scene peaceful, though enlivened, 
oblivious of care, yet rich in thought, which soothes my indo- 
lence with a congenial quiet, yet dignifies it with the swellings 
of enthusiasm, and the dreams of imagination. 

On this subject of the enjoyment of rural contemplation, I 
was much pleased with some reflections lately sent me by 
a correspondent, who subscribes himself Eubulus. " It is the 
great error of mankind," says he, " that in the pursuit of happi- 
ness, they commonly seek for it in violent gratifications, in plea- 
sures which are too intense in their degree to be of long 
duration, and of which even the frequent repetition blunts the 
capacity of enjoyment. There is no lesson more useful to 



. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. HI 

mankind than that which teaches them, that the most rational 
happiness is averse to all turbulent emotions ; that it is serene 
and moderate in its nature ; that its ingredients are neither 
costly in the acquisition, nor difficult in the attainment, but 
present themselves almost voluntarily to a well-ordered mind, 
and are open to every rank and condition of life, where absolute 
indigence is excluded." 

" The intellectual pleasures have this peculiar and superlative 
advantage over those that are merely sensual, that the most 
delightful of the former require no appropriation of their objects 
in order to their enjoyment. The contemplative man, who is an 
admirer of the beauties of nature, has an ideal property in all its 
objects. He enjoys the hill, the vale, the stream, the wood, the 
garden, with a pleasure more exquisite, because more unallayed, 
than that of their actual possessor. To him each enjoyment 
is heightened by the sense of that unremitting bounty which 
furnishes it ; nor is he disquieted by the anxiety of maintaining 
a possession of which he cannot be deprived. How truly may 
he exclaim with the poet .' 

' I care not, Fortune, what you me deny : 

You cannot rob me of free nature's grace : 

You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 

Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; 

You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 

The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve : 

Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace ; 

Of Fancy, Reason, Virtue, naught can me bereave.'* 

" To a mind of that happy conformation which the poet here 
describes, the sources of pleasure are infinite. Nature is not 
less delightful in her general impressions, than when surveyed 
in detail ; and to the former of these the verses above quoted 
seem chiefly to refer. It is certain that we experience a high 
degree of pleasure in certain emotions excited by the general 
contemplation of Nature, when the attention does not dwell 
minutely upon any of the objects that surround us. Sympathy, 
the most powerful principle in the human composition, has a 
strong effect in constituting the pleasure here alluded to. The 
stillness of the country, and the tranquillity of its scenes, have 
a sensible effect in calming the disorder of the passions, and 
inducing a temporary serenity of mind. By the same sympathy, 
the milder passions are excited, while the turbulent are laid 
asleep. That man must be of a hardened frame indeed, who 
can hear unmoved the song of the feathered tribes, when Spring 
calls forth " all Nature's harmony ;" or who can behold, without 

* Thomson's Castle of Indolence. 



112 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

a corresponding emotion of joy and of gratitude, the spright- 
liness of the young race of animals, wantoning in the exercise 
of their new powers, and invigorated by the benignity of the air, 
and the luxuriance of their pastures." 

My friend, Colonel Caustic, though I will venture to say for 
him, that he is neither without the sensibility of mind, nor the 
emotions of pious gratitude, which my correspondent justly 
supposes the contemplation of the rural scene to excite, yet 
surveys it not with feelings of quite so placid a sort as in some 
other minds it will be apt to produce. Here, as every where 
else, he stamps on the surrounding objects somewhat of the 
particular impression of his character. That sentiment, which, 
like the genius of Socrates, perpetually attends him, the child 
of virtue and of philanthropy, nursed by spleen, though here it 
puts on a certain tenderness, which it has not in town, and is 
rather disposed to complain than to censure, yet walks with him, 
not unemployed, through his woods and his fields, and throws 
on the finest of their beauties a tint of its own coloring, as the 
glass of the little instrument called a Claude Loraine, dims the 
landscape which is viewed through it. 

I have not been able to convince him, that the weather is not 
very much changed from what it was in his younger days ; and 
he quotes many observations in support of the milder temperature 
of the air in those long past seasons. But his sister, a very 
respectable maiden lady, a few years younger than the Colonel, 
who keeps house for him, insists on the difference in stronger 
terms, and is surprised at my unbelief, even though it is con- 
firmed by the register. Of her faith in this article, she shows 
the sincerity, by her practice in household matters, having, as 
she tells me, for these fifteen or sixteen years past, taken out 
the greens from the fireplaces at least a fortnight earlier than 
formerly, and not uncarpeting the rooms, nor taking down the 
window curtains, till near a month later than she was wont to do. 

On the appearance of his own fields the Colonel does not say 
quite so much, the culture he has bestowed on them counteract- 
ing in that particular the natural deterioration ; but wherever 
nature has been left to herself, her productions, according to 
him, have grown more scanty. When we start a hare, or flush 
a partridge in our walks, the Colonel always tells me there is 
not one for ten in his grounds that he used to see formerly ; 
and he rather seemed to enjoy than condole with my want of 
sport, when I went yesterday a-fishing on the very same part of 
the river, from which he informed me he was of old sure of 
catching a dish of trouts in an hour's time, any day of the 
season. Nor was he quite well pleased with his man John's 
attempting to account for it, by his neighbor Lord Grubwell's 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 113 

naving lately sent down a casting-net for the use of his game- 
keeper. 

On the subject of Lord Grubwell, however, in other matters, 
he is generally apt enough himself to expatiate. " This man," 
said he, * whose father acquired the fortune which afterwards 
procured the son his title, has started into the rank, without the 
manners or the taste of a gentleman. The want of the first 
would only be felt those two or three times in the year when 
one is obliged to meet with him ; but the perversion of the 
latter, with a full purse to give it way, makes his neighborhood 
a very unfortunate one. That rising ground on the left, which 
was formerly one of the finest green swells in the world, he has 
put yon vile Gothic tower on, as he calls it, and has planted 
half a dozen little carronades on the top of it, which it is a 
favorite amusement with him to fire on holidays and birthdays, 
or when some respected visiter drinks tea there." " That will 
frighten your Dryads," said I, smiling. " It often frightens my 
sister," replied the Colonel ; " and I am weak enough to let it 
fret me. I can bear the man's nonsense, when it is not heard 
two miles off. That ugly dry gap in the bank opposite, was the 
channel of a rill, of which he turned the course, to make a 
serpentine river for his Chinese bridge, which he had built, 
without knowing where to find water for it. And from the little 
hills behind, he has rooted out all the natural fringe of their 
birch and oak shrubwood, to cover their tops with stiff circular 
plantations. Then his temples and statues, with their white 
plaster and paint, meet one's eye in every corner. I have been 
fain to run up that hedge, to screen me from all those imperti- 
nencies, though it lost my favorite seat the best half of its 
prospect." 

But Colonel Caustic has other wrongs from the innovations 
of his neighbor, which he suffers without telling them. Lord 
Grubwell's improvements often intrench on a feeling more tender 
than the Colonel's taste, though that is delicate enough. The 
scenes around him have those ties upon my friend which long 
acquaintance naturally gives them over a mind so susceptible as 
his. As the mythology of the ancients animated all nature, by 
giving a tutelary power to every wood and fountain, so he has 
peopled many of the objects in his view with the images of past 
events, of departed friends, of warm affections, of tender regrets ; 
and he feels the change, or sometimes even the improvement, as 
a sacrilege that drives the deity from the place. This sentiment 
of memory is felt but very imperfectly in a town ; in the country 
it retains all its force, and with Colonel Caustic it operates in 
the strongest manner possible. Here he withdraws himself 
from an age which he thinks is in its decline, and finds in the 

10* 



114 PAPERS PROM THE LOUNGER. 

world of remembrance that warmth of friendship, that purity of 
manners, that refinement of breeding, that elegance of form, 
that dignity of deportment, which charmed his youth. This is 
perhaps one cause of his severity, when at any time he mixes 
with mankind ; 'tis like leaving an enlightened company of 
friends, for the frivolous society of ordinary men, which often 
overcomes the temper of the best-natured people, and, if it does 
not sink them into sadness and silence, will generally make 
them " humorous and peevish." 

Even the recollection of sufferings endears to such a mind as 
Caustic's the scene that recalls them. I observed, that wher- 
ever our stroll began, it commonly ended in a sombre walk, 
that led through a grove of beeches to a little sequestered dell. 
Here I remarked one tree fenced round in such a manner as 
showed a particular attention to its growth. I stopped as we 
passed, and looked on it with a face of inquiry. " That tree," 
said the Colonel, observing me, " is about forty years old." He 
went on a few paces — " It was planted by a lady," — throwing 
his eyes on the ground, and blushing, as I thought. " It was 
planted" — He walked some steps farther ; looked back, and 
sighed. " She was then one of the finest women in the world." 



[No. 32. Saturday, September 10, 1785.] 

I am every day more and more disposed to congratulate my- 
self on this visit to Colonel Caustic. Here I find him with all 
his good qualities brought forward, with all his failings thrown 
into the back ground, which only serve (to carry the simile a 
little farther) to give force and relief to the picture. I am now 
assured of what before I was willing to believe, that Caustic's 
spleen is of that sort which is the produce of the warmest 
philanthropy. As the admirer of painting is most offended with 
the scrawls of a dauber, as the enthusiast in music is most hurt 
with the discords of an ill-played instrument ; so the lover of 
mankind, as his own sense of virtue has painted them, when he 
comes abroad into life, and sees what they really are, feels the 
disappointment in the severest manner ; and he will often in- 
dulge in satire beyond the limits of discretion ; while indiffer- 
ence or selfishness will be contented to take men as it finds 
them, and never allow itself to be disquieted with the soreness 
of disappointed benevolence, or the warmth of indignant virtue. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 115 

I have likewise made an acquisition of no inconsiderable 
value in the acquaintance of Colonel Caustic's sister. His 
affection for her is of that genuine sort, which was to be ex- 
pected from the view of his character I have given. The first 
night of my being here, when Miss Caustic was to retire after 
supper, her brother rose, drew back the large arm-chair in which 
she sat at table with one hand, pulled the bell string with the 
other, opened the parlor door while she was making her curtesy 
to me, and then saluted her as she went out, and bid her good 
night ; and all this with a sort of tender ceremony which I felt 
then, and feel still, (for it is a thing of custom with them,) as 
one of the pleasantest pieces of good-breeding I had ever wit- 
nessed. " My sister is an excellent woman," said the Colonel, 
as he shut the door ; " and I don't like her the worse for having 
something of the primeval about her. You don't know how 
much I owe her. When I was a careless young fellow, living 
what we called a fashionable life about town, thinking, perhaps, 
like a puppy as I was, what sort of a coat I should wear, or what 
sort of stocking would best show off my leg, or perhaps prac- 
tising my salute before a glass, to enchant the ladies at a review, 
my sister Peggy, though several years younger, was here at 
home, nursing the declining age of one of the best of mothers, 
and managing every shilling not only of mine, but of theirs, to 
make up a sum for purchasing me a company. Since my mo- 
ther's death, and my being settled here, her attentions have been 
all transferred to me ; my companion in health, my nurse in 
sickness, with all those little domestic services which, though 
they are cyphers in the general account, a man like me, whose 
home is so much to him, feels of infinite importance ; and there 
is a manner of doing them, a quiet, unauthoritative, unbustling 
way of keeping things right, which is often more important than 
the things themselves. Then I am indebted to her for the 
tolerable terms I stand in with the world. When it grates 
harshly on me, (and I am old, and apt perhaps to be a little cross 
at times,) she contrives somehow to smooth matters between 
us ; and the apology I would not allow from itself, I can hear 
from her, knowing, as I do, her worth, and the affection she 
bears me. 1 were a brute to love her less than I do." 

" There is something," continued the Colonel, after a little 
pause, " in the circumstance of sex, that mixes a degree of ten- 
derness with our duty to a female ; something that claims our 
protection and our service, in a style so different from what the 
other demands from us ; the very same offices are performed so 
differently ; 'tis like grasping a crab tree, and touching a violet. 
Whenever I see a man treat a woman not as a woman should 
be treated, be it a chambermaid or a kitchenwench, (not to say 



116 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

a wife or a sister, though I have seen such examples,) let him 
be of what fashion or rank he may, or as polite at other times as 
he will, I am sure his politeness is not of the right breed. He 
may have been taught by a dancing-master, at court, or by 
travel ; but still his courtesy is not his own, 'tis borrowed only, 
and not to be relied on." 

Miss Caustic, with all those domestic and household accom- 
plishments which her brother commends, often shows that she 
has been skilled in more refined ones, though she has now laid 
them aside, like the dresses of her youth, as unsuitable to her 
age and situation. She can still talk of music, of poetry, of 
plays, and of novels ; and in conversation with younger people 
listens to their discourse on those topics with an interest and a 
feeling that is particularly pleasing to them. Her own studies, 
however, are of a more serious cast. Besides those books of 
devotion which employ her private hours, she reads history for 
amusement, gardening and medicine by way of business ; for 
she is the physician of the parish, and is thought by the country- 
folks to be wonderfully skilful. Her brother often jokes her on 
the number and the wants of her patients. ** I don't know, sis- 
ter," said he, t'other morning, " what fees you get ; but your 
patients cost me a great deal of money. I have unfortunately 
but one recipe, and it is a specific for almost all their diseases." 
— " I only ask now and then," said she, " the key of your cellar 
for them, brother ; the key of your purse they will find for them- 
selves. Yet why should not we be apothecaries that way] 
Poverty is a disease too : and if a little of my cordials, or your 
money, can cheer the hearts of some who have no other malady" 
— " It is well bestowed, sister Peggy ; and so we'll continue to 
practise, though we should now and then be cheated." 

" 'Tis one of the advantages of the country," said I, " that you 
get within reach of a certain rank of men, often most virtuous 
and useful, whom in a town we have no opportunity of knowing 
at all." " Why, yes," said Caustic ; " but the misfortune is, 
that those who could do the most for them, seldom see them as 
they ought. I have heard that every body carries a certain 
atmosphere of its own along with it, which a change of air does 
not immediately remove. So there is a certain town-atmosphere 
which a great man brings with him into the country. He has 
two or three laced lacquies, and two or three attendants without 
wages, through whom he sees, and hears, and does every thing ; 
and poverty, industry, and nature, get no nearer than the great 
gate of his courtyard." " 'Tis but too true," said his sister. 
" I have several pensioners who come with heavy hearts from 
Lord Grubwell's door, though they were once, they say, tenants 
or workmen of his own, or, as some of them pretend, relations 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 117 

of his grandfather" — " That's the very reason," continued the 
Colonel ; " why will they put the man in mind of his father and 
grandfather ! The fellows deserve a horsepond for their im- 
pertinence." " Nay, but in truth," replied Miss Caustic, " my 
lord knows nothing of the matter. He carries so much of the 
town-atmosphere, as you call it, about him. He does not rise 
till eleven, nor breakfast till twelve. Then he has his steward 
with him for one hour, his architect for another, his layer out of 
ground for a third. After this, he sometimes gallops out for a 
little exercise, or plays at billiaids within doors ; dines at a table 
of twenty covers ; sits very late at his bottle ; plays cards, ex- 
cept when my lady chooses dancing, till midnight ; and they 
seldom part till sunrise." — " And so ends," said the Colonel, 
"your Idyllium on my Lord Grubwell's rural occupations." 

We heard the tread of a horse in the court, and presently 
John entered with a card in his hand ; which his master no 
sooner threw his eyes on, than he said, " But you need not de- 
scribe, sister, our friend may see, if he inclines it. That card 
(I could tell the chaplain's fold at a mile's distance) is my lord's 
annual invitation to dinner. Is it not, John V 1 " It is my Lord 
Grubwell's servant, Sir," said John. His master read the 
card : — " And as he understands the Colonel has at present a 
friend from town with him, he requests that he would present 
that gentleman his lordship's compliments, and entreat the 
honor of his company also." " Here is another card, Sir, for 
Miss Caustic." — "Yes, yes, she always gets a counterpart." — 
*' But I shan't go," said his sister ; " her ladyship has young 
ladies enow to make fools of; an old woman is not worth the 
trouble." — " Why then you must say so," answered her brother ; 
*' for the chaplain has a note here at the bottom, that an answer 
is requested. I suppose your great folks now-a-days contract 
with their maiire d'hotel by the head ; and so they save half-a- 
crown when one don't set down one's name for a cover." — 
" But, spite of the half crown, you must go," said the Colonel 
to me ; " you will find food for moralizing ; and I shall like my 
own dinner the better. So return an answer accordingly, sis- 
ter ; and do you hear, John, give my lord's servant a slice of 
cold beef and a tankard of beer in the mean time. It is possible 
he is fed upon contract too ; and for such patients, I believe, 
sister Peggy, Dr. Buchan's Domestic Medicine recommends 
cold beef and a tankard." 



118 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER, 



[No. 33. Saturday, September 17, 1785.] 

I mentioned in my last paper, that my friend Colonel Caustic 
and I had accepted an invitation to dine with his neighbor, Lord 
Grub well. Of that dinner I am now to take the liberty of giving 
some account to my readers. It is one advantage of that habit 
of observation, which, as a thinking Lounger, I have acquired, 
that from most entertainments I can carry something more than 
the mere dinner away. I remember an old acquaintance of 
mine, a jolly carbuncle-faced fellow, who used to give an ac- 
count of a company by the single circumstance of the liquor 
they could swallow. At such a dinner was one man of three 
bottles, four of two, six of a bottle and a half, and so on ; and 
as for himself, he kept a sort of journal of what he had pouched, 
as he called it, at every place he had been invited during a whole 
winter. My reckoning is of another sort ; I have sometimes 
carried off from a dinner, one, two, or three characters, swal- 
lowed half a dozen anecdotes, artd tasted eight or ten insipid 
things, that were not worth the swallowing. I have one advan- 
tage over my old friend ; I can digest what, in his phrase, I have 
pouched, without a headache. 

When we sat down to dinner at Lord Grubwell's I found that 
the table was occupied in some sort by two different parties, one 
of which belonged to my lord, and the other to my lady. At 
the upper end of my lord's, sat Mr. Placid, a man agreeable by 
profession, who has no corner in his mind, no prominence in his 
feelings, and, like certain chemical liquors, has the property of 
coalescing with every thing. He dines with every body that 
gives a dinner, has seventeen cards for the seven days of the 
week, cuts up a fowl, tells a story, and hears a story told, with 
the best grace of any man in the world. Mr. Placid had been 
brought by my lord, but seemed inclined to desert to my lady, 
or rather to side with both, having a smile on the right cheek for 
the one, and a simper on the left for the other. 

Lord Grubwell being a patron of the fine arts, had at his board- 
end, besides the layer out of his grounds, a discarded fiddler 
from the opera house, who allowed that Handel could compose 
a tolerable chorus ; a painter, who had made what he called 
fancy portraits of all the family, who talked a great deal about 
Correggio ; a gentleman on one hand of him who seemed an 
adept in cookery ; and a little blear-eyed man on the other, who 
was a connoisseur in wine. On horseflesh, hunting, shooting., 
cricket, and cockfighting, we had occasional dissertations from 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 119 

several young gentlemen at both sides of his end of the table, 

who, though not directly of his establishment, seemed, from 

what occured in conversation, to be pretty constantly in waiting. 

Of my lady's division, the most conspicuous person was a 

gentleman who sat next her, Sir John , who seemed to enjoy 

the office of her Cicisbeo or Cavaliere servente, as nearly as the 
custom of this country allows. There was, however, one little 
difference between him and the Italian cavaliere, that he did not 
seem so solicitous to serve as to admire the lady, the little atten- 
tions being rather directed from her to him. Even his admira- 
tion was rather understood than expressed. The gentleman 
indeed, to borrow a phrase from the grammarians, appeared to 
be altogether of the passive mood, and to consider every exer- 
tion as vulgar and unbecoming. He spoke mincingly, looked 
something more delicate than man ; had the finest teeth, the 
whitest hand, and sent a perfume around him at every motion. 
He had travelled, quoted Italy very often, and called this a 
tramontane country, in which, if it were not for one or two fine 
women, there would be no possibility of existing. 

Besides this male attendant, Lady Grubwell had several fe* 
male intimates, who seemed to have profited extremely by her 
patronage and instructions, who had learned to talk on all town 
subjects with such ease and confidence, that one could never 
have supposed they had been bred in the country, and had, 
as Colonel Caustic informed me, only lost their bashfulness 
about three weeks before. One or two of them, I could see, 
were in a professed and particular manner imitators of my lady, 
used all her phrases, aped all her gestures, and had their dress 
made so exactly after her pattern, that the Colonel told me a 
blunt country gentleman, who dined there one rainy day, and 
afterwards passed the night at his house, thought they had got 
wet to the skin in their way, and had been refitted from her 
ladyship's wardrobe. " But he was mistaken," said the Colo- 
nel ; " they only borrowed a little of her complexion." 

The painter had made a picture, of which he was very proud, 
of my lady attended by a group of those young friends, in the 
character of Diana, surrounded by her nymphs, surprised by 
Acteon. My lady, when she was showing it to me, made me 
take notice how very like my lord, Acteon was. Sir John, who 
leaned over her shoulder, put on as broad a smile as his good- 
breeding would allow, and said it was one of the most monstrous 
clever things he had ever heard her ladyship say. 

Of my lord's party there were some young men, brothers and 
cousins of my lady's nymphs, who showed the same laudable 
desire of imitating him, as their kinswomen did of copying her. 
But each end of the table made now and then interchanges with 



120 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

the other : some of the most promising of my lord's followers 
were favored with the countenance and regard of her ladyship ; 
while, on the other hand, some of her nymphs drew the particular 
attention of Acteon, and seemed, like those in the picture, willing 
to hide his Diana from him. Amidst those different, combined, 
or mingled parties, I could not help admiring the dexterity of Pla- 
cid, who contrived to divide himself among them with wonderful 
address. To the landscape-gardener he talked of clumps and 
swells ; he spoke of harmony to the musician, of coloring to the 
painter, of hats and feathers to the young ladies, and even con- 
ciliated the elevated and unbending baronet, by appeals to him 
about the quay at Marseilles, the Corso at Rome, and the gallery 
of Florence. He was once only a little unfortunate in a refer- 
ence to Colonel Caustic, which he meant as a compliment to my 
lady, "how much more elegant the dress of the ladies was now- 
a-days than formerly, when they remembered it 1" Placid is but 
very little turned of fifty. 

Caustic and I were nearly " mutes and audience to this act." 
The Colonel, indeed, now and then threw in a word or two of 
that dolce piccante, that sweet and sharp sort in which his polite- 
ness contrives to convey his satire. I thought I could discover 
that the company stood somewhat in awe of him ; and even my 
lady endeavored to gain his good will by a very marked atten- 
tion. She begged leave to drink his sister's health in a particular 
manner after dinner, and regretted exceedingly not being favored 
with her company. " She hardly ever stirs abroad, my lady,'* 
answered the Colonel ; " besides (looking slyly at some of her 
ladyship's female friends), she is not young, nor, I am afraid, 
bashful enough for one of Diana's virgins." 

When we returned home in the evening, Caustic began to 
moralize on the scene of the day. "We were talking" said he 
to me, " t'other morning, when you took up a volume of Cook's 
Voyages, of the advantages and disadvantages arising to newly- 
discovered countries from our communication with them : of the 
wants we show them along with the conveniences of life, the dis- 
eases we communicate along with the arts we teach. I can trace 
a striking analogy between this and the visit of Lord and Lady 
Grubwell to the savages here, as I am told they often call us- 
Instead of the plain wholesome fare, the sober manners, the filial, , 
the parental, the family virtues, which some of our households 
possessed, these great people will inculcate extravagance, dissi- 
pation, and neglect of every relative duty ; and then in point of 
breeding and behaviour, we shall have petulance and inattention, 
instead of bashful civility, because it is the fashion with fine folks 
to be easy ; and rusticity shall be set off with impudence, like a 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 121 

grogram waistcoat with tinsel binding, that only makes its coarse- 
ness more disgusting." 

" But you must set them right, my good Sir," I replied, " in 
these particulars. You must tell your neighbors, who may be 
apt, from some spurious examples, to suppose that every thing 
contrary to the natural ideas of politeness is polite, that in such 
an opinion they are perfectly mistaken. Such a caricature is 
indeed, as in all other imitations, the easiest to be imitated : but 
it is not the real portraiture and likeness of a high-bred man or 
woman. As good dancing is like a more dignified sort of walk, 
and as the best dress hangs the easiest on the shape ; so the 
highest good-breeding, and the most highly polished fashion, is 
the nearest to nature, but to nature in its best state, to that belle 
nature which works of taste (and a person of fashion is a work 
of taste) in every department require. It is the same in morals 
as in demeanor ; a real man of fashion has a certain retenue, a 
degree of moderation in every thing, and will not be more wicked 
or dissipated than there is occasion for ; you must therefore sig- 
nify to that young man who sat near me at Lord Grubwell's, who 
swore immoderately, was rude to the chaplain, and told us some 
things of himself for which he ought to have been hanged, that 
he will not have the honor of going to the devil in the very best 
company." 

" Were I to turn preacher," answered the Colonel, " I would 
not read your homily. It might be as you say in former times ; 
but in my late excursion to your society, I cannot say I could 
discover even in the first company, the high polish you talk of 
There was Nature, indeed, such as one may suppose her in 
places which I have long since forgotten ; but as for her beauty 
or grace, I could perceive but little of it. The world has o^ten 
been called a theatre ; now the theatre of your fashionable world 
seems to me to have lost the best part of the audience : it is all 
either the yawn of the side boxes, or the roar of the upper gal- 
lery. There is no pit, (as I remember the pit) ; none of that 
mixture of good-breeding, discernment, taste, and feeling, which 
constitutes an audience, such as a first-rate preformer would 
wish to act his part to. For the simile of the theatre will still 
hold in this further particular, that a man, to be perfectly well- 
bred, must have a certain respect and value for his audience, 
otherwise his exertions will generally be either coarse or feeble. 
Though indeed a perfectly wellbred man will feel that respect 
even for himself: and were he in a room alone," said Caustic, 
(taking an involuntary step or two, till he got opposite to a mirror 
that hangs at the upper end of his parlor,) "would blush to find 
himself in a mean or ungraceful attitude, or to indulge a thought 
gross, illiberal, or ungentlemanlike." "You si ' said Miss 

11 



122 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

Caustic to me ; " but I have often told my brother, that he is a very 
Oroondates on that score ; and your Edinburgh people may be 
very wellbred, without coming up to his standard." "Nay 
but," said I, "were I even to give Edinburgh up, it would not ef- 
fect my position. Edinburgh is but a copy of a larger metrop- 
olis ; and in every copy the defect I mentioned is apt to take 
place ; and of all qualities I know, this of fashion and good 
breeding is the most delicate, the most evanescent, if I may be 
allowed so pedantic a phrase. 'Tis like the flavor of certain 
liquors, which it is hardly possible to preserve in the removal of 
them." " Oh, now I understand you," said Caustic, smiling in 
his turn ; " like Harrowgate- water, for example, which I am told 
has spirit at the spring ; but when brought, hither, I find it, under 
favor, to have nothing but stink and ill taste remaining." 



[No. 40. Saturday, November 5, 1785.] 

To the Author of the Lounger : 

Sir, — In the works of your predecessors, as well as in every 
other book of didactic wisdom, much stress is laid on the advan- 
tages of a cultivated education, of an early acquaintance with the 
celebrated authors of antiquity. From Cicero downwards (and 
indeed much more anciently than Cicero,) the benefits of learn- 
ing have been enumerated, which is held forth as the surest road 
to respect, to advancement, and to happiness. 

There was a time, Mr. Lounger, when this was my own opin- 
ion ; and, seconded by the wishes of my parents, I early applied 
myself to every branch of learning which their circumstances, 
rather narrow ones, could set within my reach. As I was in- 
tended for the church, I received an academical education suited 
to that profession ; and acquired, besides, a considerable knowl- 
edge, as was generally allowed, in different departments of sci- 
ence not absolutely requisite to the situation of a clergyman. 
For the acquisition of these I was indebted to the generous as- 
sistance of a gentleman whose godson I happened to be. He 
used to say, that a clergyman in this country should know some- 
thing more than divinity; that he must be the physician, the 
geographer, and the naturalist of his parish : and according to 
the scanty allowance of my father, he made an addition equal 
to the procuring me an opportunity of acquiring the different 
branches of knowledge connected with those studies. 

By the favor of the same gentleman, I lately procured a re- 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 123 

commendation to a friend of his, a baronet in my native coun- 
ty, who has in his gift the presentation to a considerable living, 
of which the present incumbent is in such a valetudinary state, 
as makes his surviving long a matter of very little probability. 
To this recommendation a very favorable answer was received, 
expressive of the great regard which the baronet and his family 
bore to the gentleman who patronised me, and accompanied with 
what we thought a very fortunate piece of condescension and 
politeness, an invitation for me to spend a week or two at the 
baronet's country-seat during the autumn vacation. Of this I 
need not say how happy we were to accept. My family rejoiced 
at the introduction which I was about to procure to the notice 
and complacency of a great man's house, and considered it as 
the return which they had always hoped for all their trouble and 
expense about my education. My own pride was not silent on 
the subject. I looked on this visit as an opportunity afforded 
me of displaying the talents with which I flattered myself I was 
endowed, and the knowledge I had been at such pains to attain. 
When I arrived at the baronet's, I found him and his lady a 
good deal disappointed with my appearance and address, which 
I now first perceived to want something which was essential to 
good company. I felt an awkwardness, which my want of mix- 
ing with the world had occasioned, and an embarrassment which 
all my knowledge did not enable me to overcome. For these, 

however, Sir John and Lady F felt rather compassion than 

displeasure, and delivered me over to the valet de chambre, to 
make me somewhat smarter, as they called it, by having my 
hair more modishly dressed, and the cut of my coat altered ; an 
improvement which I rather felt as an indignity than acknowl- 
edged as a favor. These preliminaries being adjusted, I was 
suffered to come into company, where I expected to make up 
for the deficiency of my exterior by displaying the powers of 
my mind, and the extent of my knowledge. But I discovered, 
to my infinite mortification, that my former studies had alto- 
gether been misapplied, and that in my present situation they 
availed me nothing. My knowledge of the learned languages, 
of classical authors, of the history, the philosophy, and the 
poetry of the ancients, I met with no occasion to introduce, and 
no hearers to understand ; but it was found that I could neither 
carve, play whist, sing a catch, or make up one in a country 
dance. A young lady, a visiter of the family, who was said to 
be a great reader, tried me with the enigmas of the Lady's 
Magazine, and declared me impracticably dull. Geography, 
astronomy, or natural history, Sir John and his companions 
neither understood nor cared for ; but some of them reminded 
the baronet, in my presence, of a clergyman they had met with 



124 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

in one of their excursions, a man of the most complete educa- 
tion, who was allowed to be the best bowler in the county, a 
dead shot, rode like the devil (these were the gentleman's words), 
and was a sure hand at finding a hare. 

If these qualities are not very clerical, they may however be 
deemed innocent ; but I find from the discourse of the family, 
that some other things are required of Sir John's parson, which 
it would not be so easy for a good conscience to comply with. 
He must now and then drink a couple of bottles, when the com- 
pany chooses to be frolicsome ; he must wink at certain inde- 
cencies in language, and irregularities in behaviour ; and once, 
when Sir John had sat rather longer than usual after dinner, he 
told me, that a clergyman, to be an honest fellow, must have 
nothing of religion about him. 

In the seclusion of a college I may perhaps have over-rated 
the usefulness of science, and the value of intellectual endow- 
ments ; my pride of scholarship, therefore, I should be willing 
to overcome, since I find that learning confers so little estima- 
tion in the world : but as on the score of qualifications I am in- 
capable of what is desired, and in the article of indulgences 
will never submit to what is expected ; is it not my duty, Mr. 
Lounger, to resign my pretensions to the living which was pro- 
mised me ? Though I dread the reproaches of my parents, 
whom the prospect of having me so soon provided for had made 
happy ; though I fear to offend my benefactor who recommend- 
ed me to Sir John, and at the same time assured me that he 
was one of the best sort of men he knew ; yet, surely, to pur- 
chase patronage and favor by such arts is unworthy, to insure 
them by such compliances, is criminal. I am, &c. 

Modestus. 

In the course of my late excursion to the country, I have seen 
some instances of the evil complained of by my correspondent, 
which equally surprised and grieved me. The proprietor of a 
country parish, if he has the true pride and feeling of his station, 
will consider himself as a kind of sovereign of the domain ; 
bound, like all other sovereigns, as much for his own sake as 
for theirs, to promote the interests and the happiness of his 
people. So much of both depend on the choice of their pastor, 
that perhaps there is no appointment which he has the power of 
making, more material to the prosperity and good order of his 
estate. The advantages of rational religion, or the evils which 
arise from its abuse, which are often the effects of a proper or 
improper nomination of a clergyman, form a character of the 
people of a district not more important to their morals and eternal 
interests, than to their temporal welfare and prosperity. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 125 

I was very much pleased, in my late visit at Colonel Caustic's* 
with the appearance and deportment of the clergyman of his 
parish, who was a frequent visiter of my friend's and his sister's. 
The Colonel, after drawing his character in a very favorable way, 
concluded with telling me, that he had seen something of the 
world, having officiated in the early part of his life as the chaplain 
of a regiment. To this circumstance, I confess, I was inclined 
to impute some of the Colonel's predilection in his favor ; but 
a little acquaintance with him convinced me that he had done 
the good man no more than justice in his eulogium. There was 
something of a placid dignity in his aspect ; of a politeness, 
not of form, but of sentiment, in his manner ; of a mildness, 
undebased by flattery ; in his conversation, equally pleasing and 
respectable. He had now no family, as Miss Caustic informed 
me, having had the misfortune to lose his wife, and two children 
she had brought him, a good many years ago. But his parish- 
ioners are his family, said she. His look indeed was parental, 
with something above the cares, but not the charities of this 
world ; and over a cast of seriousness, and perhaps melancholy, 
that seemed to be reserved for himself, there was an easy cheer- 
fulness, and now and then a gayety, that spoke to the innocent 
pleasures of life a language of kindness and indulgence. 

" It is the religion of a gentleman," said Colonel Caustic.-— 
" It is the religion of a philosopher," said I. — " It is something 
more useful than either," said his sister. M Did you know his 
labors as I have sometimes occasion to do! The composer of 
differences ; the promoter of peace and of contentment ; the 
encourager of industry, sobriety, and all the virtues that make 
the lower ranks prosperous and happy. He gives to religion a 
certain graciousness which allures to its service, yet in his own 
conduct he takes less indulgence than many that preach its 
terrors. The duties of his function are his pleasures, and his 
doctrine is, that every man will experience the same thing, if he 
brings his mind fairly to the trial : " That to fill our station well 
is in every station to be happy." 

" The great and the wealthy, I have heard the good man say," 
continued the excellent sister of my friend, " to whom refine- 
ment and fancy open a thousand sources of delight, do not make 
the proper allowance for the inferior rank of men. That rank 
has scarce any exercise of mind or imagination but one, and 
that one is religion ; we are not to wonder if it sometimes 
wanders into the gloom of superstition, or the wilds of enthu- 
siasm. To keep this principle warm but pure, to teach it as 
the gospel has taught it, ' the mother of good works,' as en- 
couraging, not excusing our duties, the guide at the same time, 
and the sweetener of life : To dispense this sacred treasure as, 

u* 



126 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

the balm of distress, the cordial of disease, the conqueror of 
death ! These are the privileges which I enjoy, which I hope I 
have used for the good of my people : They have hitherto shed 
satisfaction on my life, and I trust will smooth the close !" 
" It is the religion of a Christian !" said Miss Caustic. 



[No. 61. Saturday, April 1, 1786.] 

In treating of the moral duties which apply to different re- 
lations of life, men of humanity and feeling have not forgotten 
to mention those which are due from masters to servants. No- 
thing indeed can be more natural than the attachment and regard 
to which the faithful services of our domestics are entitled ; the 
connection grows up, like all the other family charities, in early 
life, and is only extinguished by those corruptions which blunt 
the others, by pride, by folly, by dissipation, or by vice. 

I hold it indeed as the sure sign of a mind not poised as it 
ought to be, if it is insensible to the pleasures of home, to the 
little joys and endearments of a family, to the affection of rela- 
tions, to the fidelity of domestics. Next to being well with his 
own conscience, the friendship and attachment of a man's family 
and dependants seems to me one of the most comfortable 
circumstances in his lot. His situation with regard to either, 
forms that sort of bosom comfort or disquiet that sticks close to 
him at all times and seasons, and which, though he may now 
and then forget it amidst the bustle of public, or the hurry of 
active life, will resume its place in his thoughts, and its perma- 
nent effects on his happiness, at every pause of ambition or of 
business. 

In situations and with dispositions such as mine, there is per- 
haps less merit in feeling the benevolent attachment to which I 
allude, than in those of persons of more bustling lives, and more 
dissipated attention. To the Lounger, the home which receives 
him from the indifference of the circles in which he sometimes 
loiters his time, is naturally felt as a place of comfort and pro- 
tection ; and an elderly man-servant, whom I think I govern 
quietly and gently, but who perhaps quietly and gently governs 
me, I naturally regard as a tried and valuable friend. Few 
people will perhaps perfectly understand the feeling I experience 
when I knock at my door, after any occasional absence, and 
hear the hurried step of Peter on the stairs ; when I see the 
glad face with which he receives me, and the look of honest joy 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 127 

with which he pats Caesar (a Pomeranian dog who attends me in 
all my excursions) on the head, as it' to mark his kind acception 
of him too : when he tells me he knew my rap, makes his mo- 
dest inquiries after my health, opens the door of my room, which 
he has arranged for my reception, places my slippers before the 
fire, and draws my elbowchair to its usual stand ; I confess I 
sit down in it with a self-complacency which I am vain enough 
to think a bad man were incapable of feeling. 

It appears to me a very pernicious mistake, which I have 
sometimes seen parents guilty of in the education of their child- 
ren, to encourage and incite in them a haughty and despotic 
behaviour to their servants ; to teach them an early conceit of 
the difference of their conditions ; to accustom them to consider 
the services of their attendants as perfectly compensated by the 
wages they receive, and as unworthy of any return of kindness, 
attention, or complacency. Something of this kind must indeed 
necessarily happen in the great and fluctuating establishments 
of fashionable life ; but I am sorry to see it of late gaining 
ground in the country of Scotland, where, from particular cir- 
cumstances, the virtues and fidelity of a great man's household 
were wont to be conspicuous, and exertions of friendship and 
magnanimity in the cause of a master, used to be cited among 
the traditional memorabilia of most old families. 

When I was, last autumn, at my friend Colonel Caustic's in 
the country, I saw there on a visit to Miss Caustic, a young 
gentleman and his sister, children of a neighbor of the Colonel's, 
with whose appearance and manner I was peculiarly pleased. — 
" The history of their parents," said my friend, " is somewhat 
particular, and I love to tell it, as I do every thing that is to the 
honor of our nature. Man is so poor a thing taken in the gross, 
that when I meet with an instance of nobleness in detail, I am 
fain to rest upon it long, and to recall it often ; as, in coming 
hither over our barren hills, you would look with double delight 
on a spot of cultivation or of beauty. 

" The father of those young folks, whose looks you were 
struck with, was a gentleman of considerable domains and ex- 
tensive influence on the northern frontier of our country. In 
his youth he lived, as it was then more the fashion than it is now, 
at the seat of his ancestors, surrounded with Gothic grandeur, 
and compassed with feudal followers and dependants, all of 
whom could trace their connection, at a period more or less re- 
mote, with the family of their chief. Every domestic in his house 
bore the family name, and looked on himself as in a certain de- 
gree partaking its dignity, and sharing its fortunes. Of these, 
one was in a particular manner the favorite of his master. Al- 
bert Bane (the surname, you know, is generally lost in a name. 



128 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

descriptive of the individual,) had been his companion from in- 
fancy. Of an age so much more advanced as to enable him to 
be a sort of tutor to his youthful lord, Albert had early taught 
him the rural exercises and rural amusements, in which himself 
was eminently skilful : he had attended him in the course of his 
education at home, of his travels abroad, and was still the con- 
stant companion of his excursions, and the associate of his sports. 

" On one of those latter occasions, a favorite dog of Albert's, 
which he had trained himself, and of whose qualities he was 
proud, happened to mar the sport which his master expected, 
who, irritated at the disappointment, and having his gun ready 
cocked in his hand, fired at the animal, which, however, in the 
hurry of his resentment, he missed. Albert, to whom Oscar 
was as a child, remonstrated against the rashness of the deed, 
in a manner rather too warm for his master, ruffled as he was 
with the accident, and conscious of being in the wrong, to bear. 
In his passion he struck his faithful attendant ; who suffered the 
indignity in silence, and retiring, rather in grief than in anger, 
left his native country that very night ; and when he reached the 
nearest town, enlisted with a recruiting party of a regiment then 
on foreign service. It was in the beginning of the war with 
France which broke out in 1744, rendered remarkable for the 
rebellion which the policy of the French court excited, in which 
some of the first families of the Highlands were unfortunately 
engaged. Among those who joined the standard of Charles, 
was the master of Albert. 

" After the battle of Culloden, so fatal to that party, this gen- 
tleman, along with others who had escaped the slaughter of the 
field, sheltered themselves from the rage of the unsparing sol- 
diery, among the distant recesses of their country. To him his 
native mountains offered an asylum ; and thither he naturally 
fled for protection. Acquainted, in the pursuits of the chace, 
with every secret path and unworn track, he lived for a consider- 
able time, like the deer of his forest, close hid all day, and only 
venturing down at the fall of the evening, to obtain from some 
of his cottagers, whose fidelity he could trust, a scanty and pre- 
carious support. I have often heard him, for he is one of my 
oldest acquaintances, describe the scene of his hiding-place, at 
a later period, when he could recollect it in its sublimity, without 
its horror. * At times,' said he, 4 when I ventured to the edge of 
the wood, among some of those inaccessible crags which you re- 
member a few miles from my house, I have heard, in the pauses 
of the breeze which rolled solemn through the pines beneath me, 
the distant voices of the soldiers, shouting in answer to one ano- 
ther amidst their inhuman search. I have heard their shouts 
re-echoed from cliff to cliff, and seen reflected from the deep still 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 129 

lake below, the gleam of those fires which consumed the cot- 
tages of my people. Sometimes shame and indignation well 
nigh overcame my fear, and I have prepared to rush down the 
steep, unarmed as I was, and to die at once by the swords of 
my enemies, but the instinctive love of life prevailed, and start- 
ing as the roe bounded by me, I have again shrunk back to the 
shelter I had left. 

" ' One day,' continued he, * the noise was nearer than usual ; 
and at last, from the cave in which I lay, I heard the parties 
immediately below so close upon me, that I could distinguish 
the words they spoke. After some time of horrible suspense, 
the voices grew weaker and more distant ; and at last I heard 
them die away at the farther end of the wood. I arose and stole 
to the mouth of the cave ; when suddenly a dog met me, and 
gave that short quick bark by which they indicate their prey. 
Amidst the terror of the circumstance, I was yet master enough, 
of myself to discover the dog was Oscar ; and I own to you I 
felt his appearance like the retribution of justice and of Heaven. 
— Stand ! cried a threatening voice, and a soldier pressed 
through the thicket, with his bayonet charged. It was Albert ! 
Shame, confusion, and remorse, stopped my utterance, and I 
stood motionless before him. " My master," said he, with a 
stifled voice of wonder and of fear, and threw himself at my feet, 
I had recovered my recollection. " You are revenged," said I, 
"and I am your prisoner." "Revenged ! Alas ! you have judged 
too hardly of me ; I have not had one happy day since that 
fatal one on which I left my master ; but I have lived, I hope, 
to save him. The party to which I belong are passed ; for I 
lingered behind them among those woods and rocks which I 
remembered so well in happier days. There is, however, na 
time to be lost. In a few hours this wood will blaze, though, 
they do not suspect that it shelters you. Take my dress, which 
may help your escape, and I will endeavor to dispose of yours. 
On the coast, to the westward, we have learned there is a small 
party of your friends, which, by following the river's track till 
dusk, and then striking over the shoulder of ^the hill, you may 
join without much danger of discovery." I felt the disgrace of 
owing so much to him I had injured, and remonstrated against 
exposing him to such imminent danger of its being known that 
he had favored my escape, which, from the temper of his com- 
mander, I knew would be instant death. Albert, in an agony 
of fear and distress, besought me to think only of my own safety. 
" Save us both, r said he, "for if you die I cannot live. Perhaps 
we may meet again ; but whatever becomes of Albert, may the, 
blessing of God be with his master !" 

*< Albert's prayer was heard. His master, by the exercise of 



130 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

talents which, though he had always possessed, adversity only 
taught him to use, acquired abroad a station of equal honor and 
emolument ; and when the prescriptions of party had ceased, 
returned home to his own country, where he found Albert ad- 
vanced to the rank of a lieutenant in the army, to which his valor 
and merit had raised him, married to a lady, by whom he had 
got some little fortune, and the father of an only danghter, for 
whom nature had done much, and to whose native endowments 
it was the chief study and delight of her parents to add every 
thing that art could bestow. The gratitude of the chief was only 
equalled by the happiness of his follower, whose honest pride 
was not long after gratified, by his daughter's becoming the wife 
of that master whom his generous fidelity had saved. That 
master, by the clemency of more indulgent and liberal times, 
was again restored to the domain of his ancestors, and had the 
satisfaction of seeing the grandson of Albert enjoy the heredi- 
tary birthright of his race." — I accompanied Colonel Caustic on 
a visit to this gentleman's house, and was delighted to observe 
his grateful attention to his father-in-law, as well as the unas- 
suming happiness of the good old man, conscious of the perfect 
reward which his former fidelity had met with. Nor did it 
escape my notice, that the sweet boy and girl who had been our 
guests at the Colonel's, had a favorite brown and white spaniel, 
whom they caressed much after dinner, whose name was Oscar. 



[No. 75. Saturday, July 8, 1786.] 

E' troppo barbara quella legge, che vuol disporre del cuor delle donne a casto 
della loro rovina. — Goldoni. 

To the Author of the Lounger : 

Avignon, May, 1786. 
Sir — You will perhaps be surprised at receiving a letter from 
this place ; but if you possess that benevolence which from your 
writings one is led to ascribe to you, the unfortunate from any 
quarter may claim some of your notice. My story, I believe, 
will not be without its use ; and if you knew that sort of melan- 
cho'y indulgence which I feel in addressing a letter to my native 
country ! — But I will not give way to feeling ; I mean simply 
to relate ; and situated as I am, banished from the world, and 
losi to myself, I can tell my story, — I think I can, — as that of a 
third person, in which, though I may be interested, I will yet be 
impartial. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 131 

My father possessed a small patrimonial estate in the county 

of , and married, in early life, a lady whose birth was much 

above her fortune, and who unluckily retained all the pride of 
the first, though it but ill suited the circumstances of the latter. 
The consequences were such as might naturally be looked for. 
My father was involved in an expensive style of life, which in 
a few years obliged him to sell his estate for payment of his 
debts. He did not live to feel the distresses to which he might 
have been reduced ; and after his death my mother took up her 
residence in a country town, where the pittance that remained 
from the reversion of my father's effects, assisted by a small 
pension from government, which a distant relation of my mo- 
ther's procured for us, enabled her to educate me on that sober 
plan which necessity had now taught her to adopt. 

Our situation, however, still allowed her to mix something of 
the genteel in my education, and the place in which we lived 
was inhabited by several families, who, like us, had retired from 
more public and expensive life, and still retained somewhat of 
that polish which former intercourse with the fashionable world 
had conferred. At the age of seventeen, therefore, I was, I be- 
lieve, tolerably accomplished ; and though I knew nothing of 
high life, nor indeed wished to know it, yet I possessed a degree 
of refinement and breeding rather above what the circumstances 
of my mother might have been expected to allow. 

Of my beauty I was, like other girls, somewhat vain ; but my 
mother was proud to an extreme degree. She looked upon it as 
a gift by which my fortune and her's were to be made, and con- 
sequently spared no possible pains to set it off to advantage. 
Its importance and its power were often inculcated on me ; and 
my ambition was daily inflamed by the recital of the wealth and 
station which other girls had acquired by marriages to which 
their beauty alone had entitled them. I think I heard those in- 
stances with more indifference than my mother wished I should ; 
and could not easily be brought to consider all happiness as cen- 
tred in riches or in rank, to which her wishes and hopes were 
constantly pointed. 

These hopes, however, accident put it in her power to accom- 
plish. At the house of one of the genteelest of our acquaintance 
(who had two daughters nearly of my age) we met with Mr. 

M , a gentleman whom the lady of the house introduced 

particularly to us, as a man of great fortune and singular worth. 

Mr. M was past the meridian of life ; he had the look and 

air of a man who had seen the world, and talked on most sub- 
jects with a degree of shrewd and often sarcastic observation, 
which met with much applause from the older part of the com- 
pany, but which was not at all calculated to please the younger, 



132 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

The enthusiasm of attachment, of feeling, and of virtue, which 
our reading sometimes induced us to mention, he ridiculed as 
existing only in the dreams of poetry, or the fanciful heroes of 
romance ; but which sense and experience neither looked to find 
in others, nor ventured to indulge in ourselves. In short, my 
companions and I hated and feared him ; and neither our aversion 
or our fear was at all removed by the lectures of our mothers on 
his good sense and agreeable manners. 

These lectures were at last bestowed with particular emphasis 
on me, and, after a day or two's preamble of general commen- 
dations, he was formally proposed to me by my mother as a hus- 
band. He himself, though he made his court chiefly to her, was 
now pretty sedulous in his attentions to me ; and made many 
speeches to my beauty, and protestations of his love, which I 
heard with little emotion, but which my mother, and her friend 
whose guests we were, represented as the genuine expressions 
of the most sincere and ardent attachment. Of love I had formed 
such ideas as girls of my age generally do : and though I had 
no particular preference for any one else, I did not hesitate in 
refusing him, for whom I had hitherto conceived nothing but dis- 
gust. My refusal increased the ardor of my lover in his suit ; 
to me he talked in commonplace language of the anguish it 
caused him ; to my mother he spoke in the language of the world, 
and increased his offers in point of settlement to an exorbitant 
degree. Her influence was proportionally exerted. She persua- 
ded, implored, and was angry. The luxury and happiness of 
that state which I might acquire were warmly painted ; the folly, 
the impiety, of depriving myself and her of so comfortable an es- 
tablishment, was strongly held forth ; the good qualities and 

generosity of Mr. M were expatiated on ; those ideas which 

I ventured to plead as reasons for my rejection were ridiculed 
and exploded. At my time of life, unused to resistance, fond 
of my mother, and accustomed to be guided by her ; perhaps, 
too, somewhat dazzled with the prospect of the situation which 
this marriage would open to me ; it is not surprising that my first 
resolutions were overcome. I became the wife of Mr. M . 

For some time, the happiness they had promised seemed to 
attend me. My husband was warm, if not tender in his at- 
tachment ; my wishes for myself were not only indulged, but 
prompted ; and his kindness to my mother and my friends was 
unbounded. I was grateful to Mr. M ; I regarded, I es- 
teemed, I wished to love him. On the birth of a son, which 
happened about a year after our marriage, he redoubled his assi- 
duities about me. I was more happy, more grateful ; I looked 
on my boy, his father caressed him ; and then it was that I loved 
Mr. M— indeed. 






PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 133 

This happiness, however, it was not my good fortune long to 

enjoy. Some projects of political ambition, in which Mr. M 

was engaged, called him from those domestic enjoyments which 
seemed for a while to have interested him, into more public life. 
We took up our residence, in the capital, and Mr. M intro- 
duced me to what is called the best company. Of his own 
society I soon came to enjoy but little. His attachment for me 
began visibly to decay, and by degrees he lost altogether the at- 
tentions which for a while outlived it. Sullen and silent when 
we were alone, and either neglectful or contemptuous when we 
had company, he treated me as one whom it would have degra- 
ded him to love or to respect ; whom it was scarce worth while 
to hate or to despise. I was considered as merely a part of his 
establishment ; and it was my duty to do the honors of the table, 
as it was that of his butler to attend to his sideboard, or of his 
groom to take care of his horses. Like them too, I was to min- 
ister to his vanity, by the splendor of my appearance ; I was to 
show that beauty of which he was master, in company and at 
public places, and was to carry the trappings with which he had 
adorned it to be envied by the poor, and admired by the wealthy. 
While my affection for him continued, I sometimes remonstrated 
against this. His answers were first indifferent, and then peevish. 
Young, giddy, and fond of amusement, I at last began to enjoy 
the part he assigned me, and entered warmly into that round of 
dissipation, which for a while I had passed through without relish, 
and often with self-reproach. My son, who had been my tie to 
home, he took from me, to place him in the family of a former 
tutor of his own, who now kept a French academy : and I never 
had a second child. My society was made up of the gay and 
the thoughtless ; women, who like me, had no duty to perform, 
no laudable exertion to make ; but who, in the bustle of idleness, 
were to lose all thought, and in the forms of the world all honest 
attachment. 

For a considerable time, however, a sense of right, which I 
had imbibed in my infancy, rose up occasionlly to embitter my 
pleasures, and to make me ashamed of the part I was acting. 

Whenever Mr. M took the trouble of perceiving this, it 

served him but as a subject for ridicule. The restraints of re- 
ligion, or nice morality, he was at pains to represent as the 
effects of fanaticism and pedantry ; and when I seemed surprised 
or shocked at the principles he held forth, he threw in a sneer at 
my former situation, and hinted, that but for him I had been still 
the awkward ignorant thing he found me. 

Yet this man expected that I should be virtuous, as that word 
is used by the world ; that I should guard that honor which was 
his, while every other principle of my own rectitude was extin- 

12 



134 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

guished. For a long time it was so. My horror at that degree 
of depravity was not to be overcome, even amidst the levity, to 
call it no worse, of manners which I saw continually around me, 
and which, as far as it was a mark of fashion, he seemed to wish 
me to participate. Still in the possession of youth and beauty, 
I did not escape solicitations ; but I repelled them with a degree 
of resentment which I often heard the very man whose honor it 
guarded, treat as affectation in any woman who should pretend 
it. He would frequently repeat from the Letters of Lord Ches- 
terfield, that a declaration of love to a woman was always to be 
ventured, because, even though it was rejected, she would accept 
of it as a compliment to her attractions. I had soon opportuni- 
ties of knowing that Mr. M was as loose in his practice as 

in his principles. His infidelities, indeed, he was not at much 
pains to conceal ; and while I continued to upbraid him, was at 
almost as little pains to excuse. 

In such circumstances, was it to be wondered at if my virtue 
was not always proof against the attacks to which it was ex- 
posed : With a husband unequal in years, lost to my affection, 
as I was cast from his, and treating me as one from whom no 
love or duty was to be expected ; a husband whose principles 
were corrupt, whose conversation was loose, whose infidelity 
gave a sort of justice to mine ; surrounded at the same time by 
young men whose persons were attractive, whose manners were 
engaging, whose obsequious attentions were contrasted with my 
husband's neglect, and whose pretended adoration and respect 
were opposed to his rudeness and contempt : — Was it wonderful, 
that thus situated, exposed to temptation and unguarded by prin- 
ciple, I should forget first the restraints of prudence, and then 
the obligations of virtue 1 

Resigned as I now am to my situation, I can look on it as a 
kind interposition of Providence, that detection soon followed 
my first deviations from virtue, before I had lost the feelings of 
shame and contrition, before I had wandered an irrecoverable 
distance from duty, from principle, from religion. Here, in this 
place of banishment which the mercy of my husband allotted 
me, I have met with some benevolent guides, who have led me 
to the only sources of comfort for misery and remorse like 
mine; who have given me a station in which, amidst the obloquy 
of the world, amidst the humiliation of repentance, I can still in 
some degree respect myself ; who have taught me to cultivate 
my mind, to improve its powers, to regulate its principles; who 
have led me to a juster value of this life, to a sincere hope of 
the next. 

Humbled, and I trust improved by affliction, I will not indulge 
either vindication or resentment ; the injuries I have done my 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 135 

husband I am willing to expiate (as, alas! he knows I do), by 
penitence and by suffering ; yet for his own sake, and for the 
warning of others, let me ask him, if, for these injuries to him, 
and sufferings to me, he never imputes any blame to himself? 
I am told he is loud in his charges of my ingratitude and perfidy. 
I again repeat, that I will not offer to apologize for my weakness 
or my crimes. But it would be more dignified in him, as well 
as more just, were he to forget rather than to reproach the wo- 
man whose person he bought, whose affections he despised, 
whose innocence he corrupted, — whose ruin he has caused ! 

Sophia M . 



[No. 82. Saturday, August 26, 1786.] 

Je n'arme contre lui que le fruit de son crime. — Crebillon. 
r 

The effects of moral instruction and precept on the mind have 
been rated very highly by some grave and worthy men, while by 
others the experience of their inefficacy, in regulating the con- 
duct of the hearer or reader, has been cited as an indisputable 
proof of their unimportance. Among those, say they, on whom 
moral eloquence has employed all her powers, who have been 
tutored by the wisest and most virtuous teachers, and have had 
the advice and direction of the ablest and most persuasive 
guides, how few are there whose future conduct has answered 
to the instruction they received, or the maxims which were so 
often repeated to them. Natural disposition or acquired habits 
regulate the tenor of our lives ; and neither the sermon that 
persuades, nor the relation that moves, has any permanent effect 
on the actions of him who listens or who weeps. 

Yet, though examples of their efficacy are not very frequent, 
it does not altogether follow that the discourse or the story are 
useless and vain. Stronger motives will no doubt overpower 
weaker ones, and those which constantly assail will prevail over 
others which seldom occur. Passion, therefore, will sometimes 
be obeyed when reason is forgot, and corrupt society will at 
length overcome the best early impressions. But the effects of 
that reason, or of those impressions, we are not always in con- 
dition to estimate fairly. The examples of their failure are 
easily known, and certain of being observed ; the instances of 
such as have been preserved from surrounding contagion by 



136 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

their influence, are traced with difficulty, and strike us less when 
they are traced. 

Formal precepts and hypothetical cautions are indeed fre- 
quently offered to youth and inexperience, in a manner so un- 
gracious, as neither to command their attention, nor conciliate 
their liking. He who says I am to instruct and to warn, with a 
face of instruction or admonition, prepares his audience for 
hearing what the young and the lively always avoid as tiresome, 
or fear as unpleasant. A more willing and a deeper impression 
will be made, when the observation arises without being prompt- 
ed, when the understanding is addressed through the feelings. 
It was this which struck me so forcibly in the story of Father 
Nicholas. I never felt so strongly the evils of dissipation, nor 
ever was so ashamed of the shame of being virtuous. 

It was at a small town in Brittany, in which there was a con- 
vent of Benedictines, where particular circumstances had in- 
duced me to take up my residence for a few weeks. They had 
some pictures, which strangers used to visit. I went with a 
party, whose purpose was to look at them : mine, in such cases, 
is rather to look at men. If in the world we behold the shifting 
scene which prompts observation, we see in such secluded 
societies a sort of still life, which nourishes thought, which gives 
subject for meditation. I confess, however, I have often been 
disappointed ; I have seen a group of faces under their cowls, on 
which speculation could build nothing ; mere common place 
countenances, which might have equally well belonged to a cor- 
poration of bakers or butchers. Most of those in the convent 
I now visited were of that kind : one, however, was of a very 
superior order ; that of a monk, who kneeled at a distance from 
the altar, near a Gothic window, through the painted panes of 
which a gloomy light touched his forehead, and threw a dark 
Rembrandt shade on the hollow of a large, black, melancholy 
eye. It was impossible not to take notice of him. He looked 
up, involuntarily, no doubt, to a picture of our Saviour, bearing 
his cross ; the similarity of the attitude, and the quiet resignation 
of the two countenances, formed a resemblance that could not 
but strike every one. " It is Father Nicholas," whispered our 
conductor, " who is of all the brotherhood the most rigid to 
himself, and the kindest to other men. To the distressed, to the 
sick, and to the dying, he is always ready to administer assist- 
ance and consolation. Nobody ever told him a misfortune in 
which he did not take an interest, or requested good offices 
which he refused to grant : yet the austerity and mortifications 
of his own life are beyond the strictest rules of his order ; and 
it is only from what he does for others that one supposes him to 
feel any touch of humanity." The subject seemed to make our 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 137 

informer eloquent. I was young, curious, enthusiastic ; it sunk 
into my heart, and I could not rest till I was made acquainted 
with Father Nicholas. Whether from the power of the intro- 
duction I procured from his own benevolence, or from my de- 
portment, the good man looked on me with the complacency of 
a parent. " It is not usual," said he, " my son, for people at 
your age to solicit acquaintance like mine. To you the world 
is in its prime ; why should you anticipate its decay 1 Gayety 
and cheerfulness spring up around you ; why should you seek 
out the abodes of melancholy and of woe 1 Yet though dead 
to the pleasures, I am not insensible to the charities of life. I 
feel your kindness, and wish for an opportunity to requite it." 
He perceived my turn for letters, and showed me some curious 
MSS and some scarce books, which belonged to their convent : 
these were not the communications I sought ; accident gave 
me an opportunity of obtaining the knowledge I valued more, 
the knowledge of Father Nicholas, the story of his sorrows, the 
cause of his austerities. 

One evening when I entered his cell, after knocking at the 
door without being heard, I perceived him kneeling before a 
crucifix, to which was affixed a small picture, which I took to 
be that of the blessed Virgin. I stood behind him, uncertain 
whether I should wait the close of his devotional exercise, or 
retire unperceived as I came. His face was covered with his 
hand, and I heard his stifled groans. A mixture of compassion 
and of curiosity fixed me to my place. He took his hands from 
his eyes with a quickened movement, as if a pang had forced 
them thence : he laid hold of the picture, which he kissed twice, 
pressed it to his bosom ; and then gazing on it earnestly, burst 
into tears. After a few moments he clasped his hands together, 
threw a look up to heaven, and muttering some words which I 
could not hear, drew a sigh, which seemed to close the account 
of his sorrows for the time, and rising from his knees, discover- 
ed me. I was ashamed of my situation, and stammered out 
some apology for my unintentional interruption of his devo- 
tions. " Alas !" said he, " be not deceived ; these are not 

the tears of devotion ; not the meltings of piety, but the wring- 
ings of remorse. Perhaps, young man, it may stead thee to be 
told the story of my sufferings and of my sins ; ingenuous as 
thy nature seems, it may be exposed to temptations like mine ; 
it may be the victim of laudable feelings perverted, of virtue be- 
trayed, of false honor, and mistaken shame. — 

" My name is St. Hubert ; my family ancient and respectable, 
though its domains, from various untoward events, had been 
contracted much within their former extent. I lost my father 
before I knew the misfortune of losing him ; and the indulgence 

12* 



138 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

of my mother, who continued a widow, made up in the estima- 
tion of a young man, for any want of that protection or guidance 
which another parent might have afforded. After having passed 
with applause through the ordinary studies which the capital of 
our province allowed an opportunity of acquiring, my mother 
sent me to Paris, along with the son of a neighboring family, 
who, though of less honorable descent, was much richer than 
ours. Young Delaserre (that was my companion's name) was 
intended for the army ; me, from particular circumstances, which 
promised success in that line, my mother and her friends had 
destined for the long robe, and had agreed for the purchase of a 
charge for me when I should be qualified for it. Delaserre had 
a sovereign contempt for any profession but that of arms, and 
took every opportunity of inspiring me with the same sentiments. 
In the capital I had this prejudice every day more and more con- 
firmed. The jierte of every man who had served, the insolent 
superiority he claimed over his fellow-citizens, dazzled my am- 
bition, and awed my bashfulness. From nature I had that ex- 
treme sensibility of shame, which could not stand against the 
ridicule even of much inferior men. Ignorance would often 
confound me in matters of which I was perfectly well informed, 
from his superior effrontery ; and the best established principles 
of my mind would sometimes yield to the impudence of assum- 
ing sophistry, or of unblushing vice. To the profession which 
my relations had marked out for me, attention, diligence, and 
sober manners were naturally attached ; having once set down 
that profession as humiliating, I concluded its attendant qualities 
to be equally dishonorable. I was ashamed of virtues to which 
I was naturally inclined, a bully in vices which I hated and de- 
spised. Delaserre enjoyed my apostacy from innocence as a 
victory he had gained. At school he was much my inferior, and 
I attained every mark of distinction to which he had aspired in 
vain. In Paris he triumphed in his turn ; his superior wealth en- 
abled him to command the appearance of superior dignity and 
show ; the cockade in his hat inspired a confidence which my 
situation did not allow ; and, bold as he was in dissipation and 
debauchery, he led me as an inferior whom he had taught the art 
of living, whom he had first trained to independence and to 
manhood. My mother's ill-judged kindness supplied me with 
the means of those pleasures which my companions induced me 
to share, if pleasures they might be called, which I often partook 
with uneasiness, and reflected on with remorse. Sometimes, 
though but too seldom, I was as much a hypocrite on the other 
side ; I was self-denied, beneficent, and virtuous by stealth; while 
the time and money which I had so employed, I boasted to my 
companions of having spent in debauchery, in riot, and in vice. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 139 

"The habits of life, however, into which I had been led, began 
by degrees to blunt my natural feelings of rectitude, and to take 
from vice the restraints of conscience. But the dangerous con- 
nexion I had formed was broken off by the accident of Dela- 
serre's receiving orders to join his regiment, then quartered at 
Dunkirk. At his desire, I gave him the convoy as far as to a 
relation's house in Picardy, where he was to spend a day or two 
in his way. ' I will introduce you,' said he in a tone of plea- 
santry, ' because you will be a favorite : my cousin Santonges 
is as sober and precise as you were when I first found you.' 
The good man whom he had thus characterised, possessed in- 
deed all those virtues of which the ridicule of Delaserre had 
sometimes made me ashamed, but which it had never made me 
entirely cease to revere. In his family I regained the station 
which, in our dissipated society at Paris, I had lost. His ex- 
ample encouraged, and his precepts fortified my natural dispo- 
sition to goodness ; but his daughter, Emilia de Santonges, was 
a more interesting assistant to it. After my experience of the 
few of her sex with whom we were acquainted in town, the 
native beauty, the unaffected manners of Emilia, were infinitely 
attractive. Delaserre, however, found them insipid and tire- 
some. He left his kinsman's the third morning after his arrival, 
promising, as soon as his regiment should be reviewed, to meet 
me in Paris. 4 Except in Paris,' said he, * we exist merely, 
but do not live.' I found it very different. I lived but in the 
presence of Emilia de Santonges. But why should I recall 
those days of purest felicity, or think of what my Emilia was ! 
for not long after she was mine. In the winter they came to 
Paris, on account of her father's health, which was then rapidly 
on the decline. I tended him with that assiduity which was due 
to his friendship, which the company of Emilia made more an 
indulgence than a duty. Our cares, and the skill of his physi- 
cians, were fruitless. He died, and left his daughter to my 
friendship. It was then that I first dared to hope for her love ; 
that over the grave of her father I mingled my tears with Emilia's, 
and tremblingly ventured to ask, if she thought me worthy of 
comforting her sorrows 1 Emilia was too innocent for disguise, 
too honest for affectation. She gave her hand to my virtues, 
(for I then was virtuous,) to reward at the same time, and to 
confirm them. We retired to Santonges, where we enjoyed as 
much felicity as perhaps the lot of humanity will allow. My 
Emilia's merit was equal to her happiness ; and I may say with- 
out vanity, since it is now my shame, that the since wretched St. 
Hubert was then thought to deserve the blessings he enjoyed.'* 



140 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

[No. 83. Saturday, September 2, 1786.] 
Continuation of the story of Father Nicholas. 

"In this state of peaceful felicity we had lived something more 
than a year, when my Emilia found herself with child. On that 
occasion my anxiety was such as a husband who dotes upon his 
wife may be supposed to feel. In consequence of that anxiety, 
I proposed our removing for some weeks to Paris, where she 
might have abler assistance than our province could afford in 
those moments of danger which she soon expected. To this 
she objected with earnestness, from a variety of motives ; but 
most of my neighbors applauded my resolution ; and one, who 
was the nephew of a farmer-general, and had purchased the 
estate on which his father had been a tenant, told me, the dan- 
ger of their country accoucheurs was such, that no body who 
could afford to go to Paris would think of trusting them. I was 
a little tender on the reproach of poverty, and absolutely deter- 
mined for the journey. To induce my wife's consent, I had 
another pretext, being left executor to a friend who had died in 
Paris, and had effects remaining there. Emilia at last con- 
sented, and we removed to town accordingly. 

" For some time I scarce ever left our hotel : it was the same 
at which Emilia and her father had lodged when he came to 
Paris to die, and leave her to my love. The recollection of 
those scenes, tender and interesting as they were, spread a sort 
of melancholy indulgence over our mutual society, by which the 
company of any third person could scarcely be brooked. My wife 
had some of those sad presages, which women of her sensibility 
often feel in the condition she was then in. All my attention 
and solicitude were excited to combat her fears. ' I shall not 
live,' she would say, ' to revisit Santonges : but my Henry will 
think of me there : in those woods in which we have so often 
walked, by that brook to the fall of which we have listened 
together, and felt in silence what language, at least what mine, 
my love, could not speak.'" — The good Father was overpowered 
by the tenderness of the images that rushed upon his mind, and 
tears for a moment choked his utterance. After a short space 
he began, with a voice faltering and weak. 

" Pardon the emotion that stopped my recital. You pity me ; 
but it is not always that my tears are of so gentle a kind ; the 
images her speech recalled, softened my feelings into sorrow ; 
but I am not worthy of them. Hear the confession of my 
remorse. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 141 

11 The anxiety of my Emilia was at last dissipated by her safe 
delivery of a boy ; and on this object of a new kind of tender- 
ness we gazed with inexpressible delight. Emilia suckled the 
infant herself, as well from the idea of duty and of pleasure in 
tending it, as from the difficulty in finding in Paris a nurse to 
be trusted. We proposed returning to the country as soon as 
the re-establishment of her strength would permit : meantime, 
during her hours of rest, I generally went out to finish the 
business which the trust of my deceased friend had devolved 
upon me. 

" In passing through the Tuilleries, in one of those walks, I 
met my old companion, Delaserre. He embraced me with a 
degree of warmth which I scarce expected from my knowledge 
of Ins disposition, or the length of time for which our corres- 
pondence had been broken off. He had heard, he said, acci- 
dentally, of my being in town, but had sought for me several 
days in vain. In truth, he was of all men one of whom I was 
the most afraid of meeting. I had heard in the country of his 
unbounded dissipation and extravagance ; and there were some 
stories to his prejudice, which were only not believed, from an 
unwillingness to believe them in the people whom the corrup- 
tions of the world had not familiarized to baseness ; yet I found 
he still possessed a kind of superiority over my mind, which I 
was glad to excuse by forcing myself to think him less unworthy 
than he was reported. After a variety of inquiries, and express- 
ing his cordial satisfaction at the present happiness I enjoyed, 
he pressed me to spend that evening with him so earnestly, 
that though I had made it a sort of rule to be at home, I was 
ashamed to offer an apology, and agreed to meet him at the hour 
he appointed. 

" Our company consisted only of Delaserre himself, and two 
other officers, one a good deal older than any of us, who had the 
cross of St. Louis, and the rank of colonel, whom I thought the 
most agreeable man I had ever met with. The unwillingness 
with which I had left home, and the expectation of a very differ- 
ent sort of party where I was going, made me feel the present 
Ime doubly pleasant. My spirits, which were rather low when 
I went in, from that constraint I was prepared for, rose in pro- 
portion to the pleasantry around me, and the perfect ease in 
which I found myself with this old officer, who had information, 
wit, sentiment, every thing I valued most, and every thing I least 
expected in a society selected by Delaserre. It was late before 
we parted ; and at parting, I received, not without pleasure, an 
invitation from the colonel to sup with him the evening after. 

" The company at his house, I found enlivened by his sister, 
and a friend of hers, a widow, who, though not a perfect beauty, 



142 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

had a countenance that impressed one much more in her favor 
than mere beauty could. When silent, there was a certain soft- 
ness in it infinitely bewitching ; and when it was lightened up 
by the expression which her conversation gave, it was equally 
attractive. We happened to be placed next each other. Unused 
as I was to the little gallantries of fashionable life, I rather wished 
than hoped to make myself agreeable to her. She seemed, 
however, interested in my attentions and conversation, and in 
hers, I found myself flattered at the same time, and delighted. 
We played, against the inclination of this lady and me, and we 
won rather more than I wished. Had I been as rich as Dela- 
serre I should have objected to the deepness of the stakes ; but 
we were the only persons of the company that seemed uneasy 
at our success, and we parted with the most cordial good humor. 
Madame de Trenville, (that was the widow's name,) smiling to 
the Colonel, asked him to take his revenge at her house, and 
said, with an air of equal modesty and frankness, that as I had 
been the partner of her success, she hoped for the honor of my 
company, to take the chance of sharing a less favorable fortune. 

" At first my wife had expressed her satisfaction at my finding 
amusement in society, to relieve the duty of attending her. But 
when my absence grew very frequent, as indeed I was almost 
every day at Madame de Trenville's, though her words con- 
tinued the same, she could not help expressing, by her counte- 
nance, her dissatisfaction at my absence. I perceived this at 
first with tenderness only, and next evening excused myself 
from keeping my engagement. But I found my wife's company 
not what it used to be : thoughtful, but afraid to trust one ano- 
ther with our thoughts, Emilia showed her uneasiness in her 
looks, and I covered mine but ill with an assumed gayety of 
appearance. 

« The day following Delaserre called, and saw Emilia for the 
first time. He rallied me gontly for breaking my last night's 
appointment, and told me of another which he had made for me, 
which my wife insisted on my keeping. Her cousin applauded 
her conduct, and joked on the good government of wives. Be- 
fore I went out in the evening, I came to wish Emilia good 
night. I thought I perceived a tear on her cheek, and would 
have staid, but for the shame of not going. The company 
perceived my want of gayety, and Deb-orre was merry on the 
occasion. Even my friend the Colonel threw in a litte raillery 
on the subject of marriage. It was the first time I felt some- 
what awkward at being the only married man of the party. 

"We played deeper and sat later than formerly ; but I was to 
show myself not afraid of my wife, and objected to neither. I 
lost considerably, and returned home mortified and chagrined. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 143 

I saw Emilia next morning, whose spirits were not high. Me- 
thought her looks reproached my conduct, and I was enough in 
the wrong to be angry that they did so. Delaserre came to take 
me to his house to dinner. He observed as he went, that Emilia 
looked ill. ' Going to the country will re-establish her,' said 
I. — ' Do you leave Paris V said he. — ' In a few days.' — 
4 Had I such motives for remaining in it as you have.' — ' What 
motives V — * The attachment of such friends ; but friendship 
is a cold word ; the attachment of such a woman as De Tren- 
ville.' I know not how I looked, but he pressed the subject no 
farther ; perhaps I was less offended than I ought to have been. 
"We went to that lady's house after dinner. She was dressed 
most elegantly, and looked more beautiful than ever I had seen 
her. The party was more numerous than usual, and there was 
more vivacity in it. The conversation turned upon my intention 
of leaving Paris ; the ridicule of country manners, of country 
opinions, of the insipidity of country enjoyments, was kept up 
with infinite spirit by Delaserre, and most of the younger mem- 
bers of the company. Madame de Trenville did not join in 
their mirth, and sometimes looked at me as if the subject was 
too serious for her to be merry on. I was half ashamed and 
half sorry that I was going to the country ; less uneasy than vain 
at the preference that was shown me." 



[No. 84. Saturday, September 9, 1786.] 
Conclusion of the story of Father Nicholas. 

"I was a coward, however, in the wrong as well as in the right, 
and fell upon an expedient to screen myself from a discovery 
that might have saved me. I contrived to deceive my wife, and 
to conceal my visits to Madame de Trenville's, under the pre- 
tence of some perplexing incidents that had arisen in the man- 
agement of those affairs with which I was intrusted. Her mind 
was too pure for suspicion or for jealousy. It was easy even 
for a novice in falsehood, like me, to deceive her. But I had 
an able assistant in Delaserre, who now resumed the ascendancy 
over me he had formerly possessed, but with an attraction more 
powerful, from the infatuated attachment which my vanity and 
weakness, as much as her art and beauty, had made me conceive 
for Madame de Trenville. 



144 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

"It happened, that just at this time a young man arrived from 
our province, and brought letters for Emilia from a female friend 
of her's in the neighborhood of Santonges. He had been bred 
a miniature painter, and came to town for improvement in his 
art. Emilia, who doted on her little boy, proposed to him to 
draw his picture in the innocent attitude of his sleep. The young 
painter was pleased with the idea, provided she would allow him 
to paint the child in her arms. This was to be concealed from 
me, for the sake of surprising me with the picture when it should 
be finished. That she might have a better opportunity of ef- 
fecting this little concealment, Emilia would often hear, with a 
sort of satisfaction, my engagements abroad, and encourage me 
to keep them, that the picture might advance in my absence. 

" She knew not what, during that absence, was my employment. 
The slave of vice and of profusion, I was violating my faith to 
her, in the arms of the most artful and worthless of women, and 
losing the fortune that should have supported my child and her, 
to a set of cheats and villains. Such was the snare that Dela- 
serre and his associates had drawn around me. It was covered 
with the appearance of love and generosity. De Trenville had 
art enough to make me believe, that she was every way the vic- 
tim of her affection for me. My first great losses at play she 
pretended to reimburse from her own private fortune, and then 
threw herself upon my honor, for relief from those distresses into 
which I had brought her. After having exhausted all the money 
I possessed, and all my credit could command, I would have 
stopped short of ruin ; but when I thought of returning in dis- 
grace and poverty to the place I had left respected and happy, I 
had not resolution enough to retreat. I took refuge in despera- 
tion, mortgaged the remains of my estate, and staked the pro- 
duce to recover what I had lost, or to lose myself. The event 
was such as might have been expected. 

" After the dizzy horror of my situation had left me power to 
think, I hurried to Madame de Trenville's. She gave me such 
a reception as suited one who was no longer worth the deceiving. 
Conviction of her falsehood, and of that ruin to which she had 
been employed to lead me, flashed upon my mind. I left her 
with execrations, which she received with the coolness of har- 
dened vice, of experienced seduction. I rushed from her house, I 
knew not whither. My steps involuntarily led me home. At my 
own door I stopped, as if it had been death to enter. "When I 
had shrunk back some paces, I turned again ; twice did I at- 
tempt to knock, and could not ; my heart throbbed with unspeak- 
able horror, and my knees smote each other. It was night, and 
the street was dark and silent around me. I threw myself down 
before the door, and wished some ruffian's hand to ease me of 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 145 

life and thought together. At last the recollection of Emilia, 
and of my infant boy, crossed my disordered mind, and a gush 
of tenderness burst from my eyes. I rose, and knocked at the 
door. When I was let in, I went up softly to my wife's cham- 
ber. She was asleep, with a night lamp burning by her, her 
child sleeping on her bosom, and its little hand grasping her 
neck. Think what I felt as I looked ! She smiled through her 
sleep, and seemed to dream of happiness. My brain began to 
madden again ; and as the misery to which she must wake 
crossed my imagination, the horrible idea rose within me, — I 
shudder yet to tell it ! — to murder them as they lay, and next 
myself ! — I stretched my hand towards my wife's throat ! — The 
infant unclasped its little ringers, and laid hold of one of mine. 
The gentle pressure wrung my heart ; its softness returned ; t 
burst into tears ; but I could not stay to tell her of our ruin. I 
rushed out of the room, and, gaining an obscure hotel in a dis- 
tant part of the town, wrote a few distracted lines, acquainting 
her of my folly and of my crimes ; that I meant immediately to 
leave France, and not return till my penitence should wipe out 
my offences, and my industry repair that ruin in which I had in- 
volved her. I recommended her and my child to my mother's 
care, and to the protection of that Heaven which she had never 
offended. Having sent this, I left Paris on the instant, and had 
walked several miles from town before it was light. At sunrise 
a stage coach overtook me. It was going on the road to Brest. 
I entered it without arranging any future plan, and sat in sullen 
and gloomy silence, in the corner of the carriage. That day 
and next night I went on mechanically, with several other pas- 
sengers, regardless of food and incapable of rest. But the sec- 
ond day I found my strength fail, and when we stopped in the 
evening, I fell down in a faint in the passage of the inn. I was 
put to bed, it seems, and lay for more than a week in the stupe- 
faction of a low fever. 

" A charitable brother of that order to which I now belong, who 
happened to be in the inn, attended me with the greatest care 
and humanity ; and when I began to recover, the good old man 
administered to my soul, as he had done to my body, that assist- 
ance and consolation he easily discovered it to need. By his 
tender assiduities, I was now so far recruited as to be able to 
breathe the fresh air at the window of a little parlor. As I sat 
there one morning, the same stage coach in which I had arrived, 
stopped at the door of the inn, when I saw alight out of it the 
young painter who had been recommended to us at Paris. The 
sight overpowered my weakness, and I fell lifeless from my seat. 
The incident brought several people into the room, and amongst 
others the young man himself. When they had restored me to 

13 



146 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

sense, I had recollection enough to desire him to remain with 
me alone. It was some time before he recognised me ; when 
he did, with horror in his aspect, after much hesitation, and the 
most solemn entreaty from me, he told me the dreadful sequel 
of my misfortunes. My wife and child were no more ! The 
shock which my letter gave, the state of weakness she was then 
in, had not strength to support. The effects were, a fever, de- 
lirium, and death. Her infant perished with her. In the inter- 
val of reason preceding her death, she called him to her bedside ; 
gave him the picture he had drawn ; and with her last breath 
charged him, if ever he could find me out, to deliver that and 
her forgiveness to me. He put it into my hand. I know not 
how I survived. Perhaps it was owing to the outworn state in 
which my disease had left me. My heart was too weak to burst; 
and there was a sort of palsy on my mind that seemed insensible 
to its calamities. By that holy man who had once before saved 
me from death, I was placed here, where, except one melancholy 
journey to that spot where they had laid my Emilia and her boy, 
I have ever since remained. My story is unknown, and they 
wonder at the severity of that life by which I endeavor to atone 
for my offences. But it is not by suffering alone that Heaven 
is reconciled ; I endeavored, by works of charity and benefi- 
cence, to make my being not hateful in his sight. Blessed be 
God ! I have attained the consolation I wished. Already, on 
my wasting days a beam of mercy sheds its celestial light. The 
visions of this flinty couch are changed to mildness. It was but 
last night my Emilia beckoned me in smiles ; this little cherub 
was with her !" His voice ceased, — he looked on the picture, 
then towards Heaven ; and a faint glow crossed the paleness of 
his cheek. I stood awestruck at the sight. The bell for ves- 
pers tolled — he took my hand — I kissed his, and my tears began 
to drop on it. — " My son," said he, " to feelings like your's it 
may not be unpleasing to recal my story : — If the world allure 
thee, if vice ensnare with its pleasures, or abash with its ridicule, 
think of Father Nicholas — be virtuous, and be happy." 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 147 



[No. 87. Saturday, September 30, 1786.] 
Sed in longum tamen aevum 



Manserunt hodieque manent vestigia ruris. — Hor. 

That there is nobody in town, is the observation of every 
person one has met for several weeks past ; and though the word 
nobody, like its fellow vocable everybody, has a great latitude of 
signification, and in this instance means upwards of threescore 
thousand people, yet undoubtedly, in a certain rank of life, one 
finds, at this season, a very great blank in one's accustomed 
society. He whom circumstances oblige to remain in town, 
feels a sort of imprisonment from which his more fortunate ac- 
quaintance have escaped to purer air, to fresher breezes, and a 
clearer sky. He sees, with a very melancholy aspect, the close 
window shutters of deserted houses, the rusted knockers and 
mossy pavement of unfrequented squares, and the few distant 
scattered figures of empty walks ; while he fancies, in the coun- 
try, the joyousness of the reapers, and the shout of the sports- 
man enlivening the fields ; and, within doors, the hours made 
jocund by the festivity of assembled friends, the frolic, the dance, 
and the song. 

Though the prevailing incidents of my latter part of life have 
fixed it almost constantly to a town, yet nobody is more enthu- 
siastically fond of the country than I ; and, amidst all my ban- 
ishment from it, I have contrived still to preserve a relish for its 
pleasures, and an enjoy met of its sports, which few who visit it 
so seldom are able to retain. I can still weave an angling line, 
or dress a fly, am a pretty sure shot, and have not forgotten the 
tune of a View Holla, or the encouraging Hark forward ! to a 
cautious hound. But though these are a set of capacities, which 
mark one's denizenship to the country, and which therefore I am 
proud to retain, yet I confess I am more delighted with its 
quieter and less turbulent pleasures. There is a sort of moral 
use of the country, which every man who has not lost the rural 
sentiment will feel ; a certain purity of mind and imagination 
which its scenes inspire ; a simplicity, a coloring of nature on 
the objects around us, which correct the artifice and interested- 
ness of the world. There is in the country a pensive vacancy 
(if the expression may be allowed me) of mind, which stills the 
violence of passion, and the tumult of desire. One can hardly 
dream on the bank of some nameless brook without waking a 
better and a wiser man. I early took the liberty of boasting to 
my readers, that, as a Lounger, I had learned to be idle without 



148 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

guilt, and indolent without indifference. In the country, me 
thinks, I find this disposition congenial to the place ; the air which 
breathes around me, like that which touches the iEolian harp, 
steals on my soul a tender but varied tone of feeling that lulls 
while it elevates, that soothes while it inspires. ]Not a blade 
that whistles in the breeze, not a weed that spreads its speckled 
leaves to the sun, but may add something to the ideas of him, 
who can lounge with all his mind open about him. 

I am not sure if, in the regret which I feel for my absence 
from the country, I do not rate its enjoyments higher, and paint 
its landscapes in more glowing colors, than the reality might 
afford. I have long cultivated a talent very fortunate for a man 
of my disposition, that of travelling in my easy chair, of trans- 
porting myself, without stirring from my parlor, to distant places 
and to absent friends, of drawing scenes in my mind's eye, and 
of peopling them with the groups of fancy, or the society of re- 
membrance. When I have sometimes lately felt the dreariness 
of the town, deserted by my acquaintance ; when I have re- 
turned from the coffee-house where the boxes were unoccupied, 
and strolled out from my accustomed walk, which even the lame 
beggar had left ; I was fain to shut myself up in the room, order 
a dish of my best tea (for there is a sort of melancholy which 
disposes one to make much of one's self), and calling up the 
powers of memory and imagination, leave the solitary town for a 
solitude more interesting, which my younger days enjoyed in the 
country, which I think, and if I am wrong I do not wish to be 
undeceived, was the most Elysian spot in the world. 

It was at an old lady's, a relation and godmother of mine, 
where a particular incident occasioned my being left during the 
Vacation of two successive seasons. Her house was formed 
out of the remains of an old Gothic castle, of which one tower 
Was still almost entire ; it was tenanted by kindly daws and 
swallows. Beneath, in a modernized part of the building, 
resided the mistress of the mansion. The house was skirted 
with a few majestic elms and beeches, and the stumps of several 
others showed that they had once been more numerous. To 
the west, a clump of firs covered a ragged rocky dell, where the 
rooks claimed a prescriptive seignory. Through this a dashing 
rivulet forced its way, which afterwards grew quiet in its pro- 
gress : and gurgling gently through a piece of downy meadow- 
ground, crossed the bottom of the garden, where a little rustic 
paling inclosed a washing-green, and a wicker seat, fronting the 
south, was placed for the accommodation of the old lady, whose 
lesser tour, when her fields did not require a visit, used to termi- 
nate in this spot. Here, too, were ranged the hives for her bees, 
whose hum, in a still, warm sunshine, soothed the good old lady's 



, 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 149 

indolence, while their proverbial industry was sometimes quoted 
for the instruction of her washers. The brook ran brawling 
through some underwood on the outside of the garden, and soon 
after formed a little cascade, which fell into the river that winded 
through a valley in front of the house. When haymaking or 
harvest was going on, my godmother took her long stick in her 
hand, and overlooked the labors of the mowers or reapers ; 
though I believe there was little thrift in the superintendency, 
as the visit generally cost her a draught of beer or a dram, 
to encourage their diligence. 

Within doors she had so able an assistant, that her labor was 
little. In that department an old man-servant was her minister, 
the father of my Peter, who serves me not the less faithfully 
that we have gathered nuts together in my godmother's hazel- 
bank. This old butler (I call him by his title of honor, though 
in truth he had many subordinate offices) had originally enlisted 
with her husband, who went into the army a youth, though he 
afterwards married and became a country gentleman, had been 
his servant abroad, and attended him during his last illness at 
home. His best hat, which he wore o' Sundays, with a scarlet 
waistcoat of his master's, had still a cockade in it. 

Her husband's books were in a room at the top of a screw 
staircase, which had scarce been opened since his death ; but 
her own library for Sabbath or rainy days, was ranged in a 
little bookpress in the parlor. It consisted, as far as I can 
remember, of several volumes of sermons, a Concordance, 
Thomas a Kempis, Antoninus's Meditations, the Works of the 
Author of the VVhole Duty of Man, and a translation of Boe- 
thius ; the original editions of the Spectator and Guardian, 
Cowley's Poems, Dryden's Works (of which I had lost a volume 
soon after I first came about her house), Baker's Chronicle, 
Burnet's History of his own Times, Lamb's Royal Cookery, 
Abercromby's Scots Warriors, and Nisbet's Heraldry. 

The subject of the last mentioned book was my godmother's 
strong ground ; and she could disentangle a point of genealogy 
beyond any body I ever knew. She had an excellent memory 
for anecdote ; and her stories, though sometimes long, were 
never tiresome ; for she had been a woman of great beauty and 
accomplishments in her youth, and had kept such company as 
made the drama of her stories respectable and interesting. She 
spoke frequently of such of her own family as she remembered 
when a child, but scarcely ever of those she had lost, though 
one could see she thought of them often. She had buried a 
beloved husband and four children. Her youngest, Edward, 
"her beautiful, her brave," fell in Flanders, and was not en- 
tombed with his ancestors. His picture, done when a child, an 

13* 



150 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

artless red and white portrait, smelling at a nosegay, but very 
like withal, hung at her bedside, and his sword and gorget were 
crossed under it. When she spoke of a soldier, it was in a 
style* above her usual simplicity; there was a sort of swell in 
her language, which sometimes a tear (for her age had not lost 
the privilege of tears) made still more eloquent. She kept her 
sorrows, like the devotions that solaced them, sacred to herself. 
They threw nothing of gloom over her deportment ; a gentle 
shade only, like the fleckered clouds of summer, that increase, 
not diminish, the benignity of the season. 

She had few neighbors, and still fewer visiters ; but her re- 
ception of such asdid visit her was cordial in the extreme. She 
pressed a little too much perhaps ; but there was so much heart 
and good will in her importunity, as made her good things seem 
better than those of any other table. Nor was her attention 
confined only to the good fare of her guests, though it might 
have flattered her vanity more than that of most exhibiters 01 
good dinners, because the cookery was generally directed by 
herself. Their servants lived as well in her hall,, and their 
horses in her stable. She looked after the airing of their sheets, 
and saw their fires mended if the night was cold. Her old 
butler, who rose betimes, would never suffer any body to mount 
his horse fasting. 

The parson of the parish was her guest every Sunday, and 
said prayers in the evening. To say truth, he was no great 
genius, nor much a scholar. I believe my godmother knew 
rather more of divinity than he did ; but she received from him 
information of another sort ; he told her who were the poor, the 
sick, the dying of the parish, and she had some assistance, some 
comfort for them all. 

I could draw the old lady at this moment ! — dressed in gray, 
with a clean white hood nicely plaited (for she was somewhat 
finical about the neatness of her person), sitting in her straight- 
backed elbowchair, which stood in a large window scooped out 
of the thickness of the ancient wall. The middle panes of the 
window were of painted glass, the story of Joseph and his 
brethren. On the outside waved a honeysuckle tree, which of- 
ten threw its shade across her book, or her work ; but she would 
not allow it to be cut down. " It has stood there many a day," 
said she, " and we old inhabitants should bear with one another." 
Methinks I see her thus seated, her spectacles on, but raised a 
little on her brow for a pause of explanation, their shagreen 
case laid between the leaves of a silver-clasped family Bible. 
On one side, her bell and snuff-box ; on the other, her knitting 
apparatus in a blue damask bag. Between her and the fire an 
old Spanish pointer, that had formerly been her son Edward's, 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 151 

teased, but not teased out of his gravity, by a little terrier of 
mine. All this is before me, and I am a hundred miles from 
town, its inhabitants, and its business. In town I may have 
seen such a figure ; but the country scenery around, like the 
tasteful frame of an excellent picture, gives it a heightening, a 
relief, which it would lose in any other situation. 

Some of my readers, perhaps, will look with little relish on 
the portrait. I know it is an egotism in me to talk of its value ; 
but over this dish of tea, and in such a temper of mind, one is 
given to egotism. It will be only adding another to say, that 
when I recall the rural scene of the good old lady's abode, her 
simple, her innocent, her useful employments, the afflictions she 
sustained in this world, the comforts she drew from another ; I 
feel a serenity of soul, a benignity of affections, which I am 
sure confer happiness, and I think must promote virtue. 



[No. 89. Saturday, October 14, 17S6.] 

To the Author of the Lounger : 

Sir — I read with infinite satisfaction your 87th number, on 
the pleasures of the country, and the moral use of that " rural 
sentiment," the effects of which you know so well how to paint. 
But thus it is that brilliant fiction ever delights us ; while you were 
describing in town, I was witnessing in the country. I have 
just returned from an excursion into a distant county, " a hun- 
dred miles from town, its inhabitants, and its business." It was 
at the house of Mr. L , a relation and intimate acquaint- 
ance of mine, where I have been pressingly invited these several 
years past, to spend a month or two of the autumn ; to leave 
the thick air and unwholesome streets, the bustle, cares, and 
dissipation of the town, for the pure breeze, the healthful walk, 
the quiet, the peacefulness, and sobriety of the country. I had 

often heard of my friend L 's charming place, his excellent 

house, his every thing, in short, that great wealth (for he is a 
man of a very large estate) could bestow, and taste (for every 

body talked of his and Mrs. L 's taste) could adorn. I 

pictured his groves, his lawns, and his waterfalls, with some- 
what of that enthusiasm for country scenery which you seem to 
feel ; and I thought of his daughters (two elegant girls, whom I 
had just seen for a few minutes in their way from London,) as 
the woodnymphs of the scene. All this " rural sentiment" I 



152 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

set out with ; and the sight of my friend's country seat and 
beautiful grounds, which I reached on the third evening, did not 
belie it. How it has improved by my stay there, you shall judge 
by a short sketch of the country life people lead at L Hall. 

The party there, which my relation had told me was to be a 
select one, and which made him doubly urgent in his desire to 
have me there this autumn, consisted of an elderly dowager of 
rank and fortune, and her two unmarried daughters ; a member 
of parliament, and his brother, a clergyman from England ; and 

two young officers of family, companions of Mr. L 's eldest 

son, who has been about a year in the army. These, with your 

humble servant, in addition to Mr. L 's own family, made 

up the standing establishment of the house. There were be- 
sides, every day, numerous occasional visiters from the neigh- 
borhood ; Mr. L representing the county in parliament, 

and receiving the instructions of his constituents at this time of 
the year only. 

The night of my arrival, I took the liberty of retiring before 
the rest of the company, being a good deal fatigued with my 
journey. Next morning, however, I got up betimes to enjoy 
the beauties of the season, and of the calm clear landscape 
around me. But when I would have gone out, I found the 
house door locked. After various unsuccessful attempts to 
discover the retreat of the servants, I met a ragged little fellow, 
who told me he was boy to the porter's man, and the only crea- 
ture besides myself stirring in the house, for that Mr. L 's 

gentleman had given a supper to the servants who had lately 
arrived from town, and they had all sat up at cards till five in 
the morning. By the interest of this young friend, I at last 
procured the key, and was let out. I strolled the way to the 
stables, of which I found the entry much easier than the exit 
from the house, the door being left very conveniently open. 
The horses from town had not been quite so well entertained as 
the servants ; for they were standing with empty mangers, and 
the dirt of the day before hardened on their skins. But this was 
not much to be wondered at, as a pack of cards certainly affords 
a much pleasanter occupation than a currycomb. 

Having rubbed down a favorite poney, which I had brought 
to the country for an occasional ride, and locked the stable door, 
I turned down a little path that led to the shrubbery ; but I was 
afraid to enter any of the walks, as it was notified, by very 
legible inscriptions, that there were man traps, and steel guns, 
for the reception of intruders. I was forced therefore to restrict 
myself to a walk amidst the dust of the high road till ten, when 
on my return to the house, I found no less dust within doors, 
and I was obliged to take refuge in my bedroom till the break- 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 153 

fasting parlor was put in order. By one of the servants, whom, 
from his surly look, I supposed to be a loser of the preceding 
night, I was informed that breakfast for some of the company 
would be ready by eleven. 

At eleven I found some of the company assembled accord- 
ingly. The dowager did not appear, nor Mrs. L herself, 

but had chocolate in their different apartments : it seems they 
could not be made up, as one of the young ladies expressed 
it, so early : their daughters seemed to have been made up in 
haste, for they came down in rumpled night caps, and their hair 
in a brown paste upon their shoulders. The young gentlemen 
joined with us the second teapot ; their heads were in disorder 
too, but of a different kind ; they had drank, as they told us, 
three bowls of gin toddy after the rest of the company had gone 
to bed. The master of the house entered the room when break- 
fast was nearly over : he asked pardon of his brother senator 
and the clergyman for being so late ; but he had been detained, 
he said, looking over his farm ; for he is a great improver of the 
value as well as the beauty of his estate. " Did you ride or 

walk, Sir ?" said I. Mr. L smiled. " I walked only to 

the easy chair in my library : I always view my farm upon paper : 
Mr. Capability, my governor in these matters, drives through it 
in his phaeton, and lays down every thing so accurately, that I 
have no occasion to go near it." 

Breakfast ended about one. The young gentlemen talked 
of going out a-shooting ; but the weather was such as to scare 
any but hardy sportsmen ; so they agreed to play billiards and 
cards within doors, in which they were joined by all the senior 
gentlemen except myself. I proposed to betake myself to the 
library ; but I found an unwillingness in our host to let me take 
down any of the books, which were so elegantly bound and gilt, 
and ranged in such beautiful order, that it seemed contrary to the 
etiquette of the house to remove any of them from the shelves ; 
but there was a particular selection in the parlor, which the 
company was at liberty to peruse ; it was made up of Hoyle's 
Games, the List of the Army, two Almanacs, the Royal Regis- 
ter, a file of the Morning Herald, Boswell's Tour, the Fashion- 
able Magazine, the Trial of the Brighton Tailor, and an odd 
volume of the last collection of farces. 

Mrs. L , and her friend the dowager, made their appear- 
ance about two. As I was neither of the billiard or the whist 
party, and had finished my studies in the parlor, they did me the 
honor to admit me of their conversazione. It consisted chiefly 
of a dissertation on some damask and chintz furniture Mrs. 

L had lately bespoke from the metropolis, and a dispute 

about the age of a sulky set of china she had bought last winter, 



154 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER, 

at a sale of Lord Squanderfield's. In one of the pauses of tfie 
debate, the day having cleared up beautifully, I ventured to ask 
the two ladies, if they ever walked in the country. The dowager 

said, she never walked on account of her corns ; Mrs. L 

told me, she had not walked since she caught a sore throat in 
one of the cold evenings of the year 1782. 

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the young 
ladies, with half a score of packing boxes, just received by a 
ship from London. These changed the current of the discourse 
to the subject of dress, to caps, feathers, hats, and riding habits. 
The military men now joined us, and made a very valuable ad- 
dition to this board of inquiry, by their commentaries on walking 
boots, riding slippers, clubs, buckles, and buttons. We had, 
not long after, an opportunity of judging of the practice, as well 
as theory, of those branches of the fine arts. Dinner was half 
cold, waiting for the dowager's eldest daughter, and the major. 
They had spent about two hours at their toilets ; yet the hurry 
of the major appeared, by his having forgot to put in the false 
strap to his buckles ; and of the young lady, from one cheek 
being at least half a shade redder than the other. The ladies 
went to tea at nine o'clock, and we joined them at eleven, after 
having discussed the prices of different sets of boroughs at one 
end of the table, and the qualities of several racehorses and 
gamecocks at the other. 

Such, Sir, is the detail of one day at the rural retirement of 

my friend Mr. L , which may serve for the history of most 

of those I spent there. We had, however, our sabbath-day's 
employment, and our sabbath-day's guest, as well as your god- 
mother. The first Sunday after my arrival being a rainy one, 

Mrs. L , and most of our party accompanying her, went to 

the parish church. The English clergyman would not consent 
to so wicked a thing as going to a Presbyterian place of wor- 
ship, and therefore staid at home, to look over a party at picquet 
in the dowager's dressing-room, between her and his brother. 
I went with the churchgoing people for that one time, but shall 
never do so profane a thing again. The young folks nodded 
and laughed all the time of the service, and during the sermon 
drew back their chairs from the front of the gallery, ate nuts, 
and pelted the shells. The major only was more seriously em- 
ployed, in drawing caricatures of the congregation below, for 
which, it must be confessed, some of them afforded no unfavor- 
able subjects. 

The parson of the parish, like your old lady's, was always 

a Sunday visiter at L hall. He had been tutor to the heir 

and his second brother, and had the honor of inspiring them both 
with a most sovereign contempt and detestation of learning. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 155 

He, too, like your godmother's clergyman, communicated in- 
formation ; to the ladies, he related the little scandalous anec- 
dotes of the parish, and gave his former pupils intelligence of 
several coveys of partridges. Himself afforded them game 
within doors, being what is commonly called a butt to the un- 
fledged arrows of the young gentlemen's wit. To their father 
he was extremely useful in drawing corks, and putting him in 
mind where the toast stood. In short, he seemed a favorite with 
all the branches of the family. As to religion, it fared with that 
as with the literature he had been employed to instil into his 
pupils ; he contrived to make all the house think it a very 
ridiculous thing. 

About a fortnight after I went to L hall, the arrival of 

an elderly baronet from town, an old club companion of Mr. 

L 's, added one other rural idea to the stock we were already 

in possession of ; I mean that of eating, in which our new guest, 
Sir William Harrico, was a remarkable adept. Every morning 
at breakfast we had a dissertation on dinner, the bill of fare 
being brought up for the revisal of Sir William. He taught us 
a new way of dressing mushrooms, oversaw the composition of 
the grouse soup in person, and gave the venison a reprieve to a 
certain distant day, when it should acquire the exactly proper 
fumet for the palate of a connoisseur. 

Such, Mr. Lounger, is the train of " rural sentiment" which 

I have cultivated during my autumn abode at L hall. I 

think I might, without leaving town, have acquired the receipt 
for the mushroom ragout, and have eat stinking venison there 
as well as in the country. I could have played cards or billiards 
at noonday with as much satisfaction in a crowded street, as in 

view of Mr. L 's woods and mountains. The warehouse 

in Prince's street might have afforded me information as to 
chintz and damask chair covers ; and your ingenious corres- 
pondent, Mr. Jenkin, could have shown me a model of the 
newest fashioned buckle on the foot of some of his little scarlet 
beaux, or of a rouged cheek on one of the miniature ladies of 
his window. In short, I am inclined to believe that folly, affect- 
ation, ignorance, and irreligion, might have been met with in 
town, notwithstanding the labors of the Lounger ; that I might 
have saved myself three days' journey, the expense of a post- 
chaise, and a six weeks' loss of time ; and, what was perhaps 
more material than all the rest, I might have preserved that 
happy enthusiasm for country pleasures which you seem still to 
enjoy, and which, in the less informed days of my youth, I also 
was fortunate enough to possess. I am, &c. 

Urbanus, 



156 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 



[No. 90. Saturday, October 21, 1786. J 

To the Author of the Lounger : 

Sir — Though, from my rank in life, being a tradesman's 
daughter, left an orphan at six years old, I had little title to 
know any thing about sensibility or feeling ; yet having been 
very kindly taken into a family, where there were several young 
ladies who were great readers, I had opportunities of hearing 
a good deal about these things. By the same young ladies I 
was made acquainted with your paper, and it was a favorite em- 
ployment of mine to read the Lounger to them every Saturday 
morning. In one of the numbers, published some time ago, 
we met with Mrs. Alice Heartly's account of an old lady with 
whom she lives ; and from the experience of our own feelings, 
could not help pitying the connexion with one so destitute of all 
tender sentiments as my Lady Bidmore. I had soon after occa- 
sion to congratulate myself on a very different sort of establish- 
ment, having been recommended by my young patronesses to a 
lady, who used frequently to visit at their house, whom we all 
knew (indeed it was her pride, she used to say, to acknowledge 
her weakness on that side) to be a perfect pattern, or, according 
to her own phrase, a perfect martyr, of the most acute and deli- 
cate sensibility. At our house I saw her once in the greatest 
distress imaginable, from the accidental drowning of a fly in the 
creampot ; and got great credit with her myself, for my ten- 
derness about a goldfinch belonging to one of our young ladies, 
which I had taught to perch upon my shoulder, and pick little 
crumbs out of my mouth. I shall never forget Mrs. Sensitive's 
crying out, " Oh ! how I envy her the sweet little creature's 
kisses !" It made me blush to hear her speak so ; for I had 
never thought of kisses in the matter. 

That little circumstance, however, procured me her favor so 
much, that on being told of my situation, she begged I might, 
as she was kind enough to express it, be placed under her pro- 
tection. As I had heard so much of her tender-heartedness and 
her feeling ; as she was very rich, having been left a widow, 
with the disposal of her husband's whole fortune ; as she had 
nobody but herself in family, so that it promised to be an easy 
place ; all these things made me very happy to accept of her 
offer ; and I agreed to go home to her house immediately, her 
last attendant having left her somewhat suddenly. I heard 
indeed, the very morning after I went thither, that her servants 



._ 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 157 

did not use to stay long with her, which gave me some little 
uneasiness ; but she took occasion to inform me, that it was en- 
tirely owing to their cruelty and want of feeling, having turned 
them all off for some neglect or ill usage of her little family, as 
she called it. This little family, of which I had not heard be- 
fore, consists of a number of birds and beasts, which it is the 
great pleasure of Mrs. Sensitive's life to keep and fondle, and 
on which she is constantly exercising her sensibilities, as she 
says. My chief employment is to assist her in the care of them. 

The waiting on this family of Mrs. Sensitive's is not so easy 
a task as I at first flattered myself it would have been. We 
have three lapdogs, four cats, some of the ladies of which are 
almost always lying-in, a monkey, a flying squirrel, two parrots, 
a parroquet, a Virginia nightingale, a jackdaw, an owl, besides 
half a hundred smaller birds, bullfinches, canaries, linnets, and 
white sparrows. We have a dormouse, in a box, a set of 
guinea-pigs in the garret, and a tame otter in the cellar ; besides 
out-pensioners of pigeons and crows at our windows, and mice 
that come from a hole in the parlor wainscotting, to visit us at 
breakfast and dinner time. All these I am obliged to tend and 
watch with the utmost care and assiduity : not only to take care 
that their food and their drink be in plenty, and good order ; not 
only to wash the lapdogs, and to comb the cats, to play on the 
bird organ for the instruction of the canaries and goldfinches, 
and to speak to the parrots and jackdaw for theirs ; but I must 
accommodate myself, as my mistress says, to the feelings of the 
sweet creatures ; I must contribute to their amusement, and 
keep them in good spirits ; I must scratch the heads of the 
parrots ; I must laugh to the monkey, and play at cork balls 
with the kittens. Mrs. Sensitive says, she can understand their 
looks and their language from sympathy ; and that she is sure 
it must delight every susceptible mind to have thus an opportu- 
nity for extending the sphere of its sensibilities. 

She sometimes takes an opportunity of extending something 
else with poor me. You can hardly suppose what a passion she 
gets into, if any thing about this family of hers is neglected ; 
and when she chooses to be angry with me, and speak her mind 
a little loud or so, her favorites, I suppose from sympathy too, 
join in the remonstrance, and make such a concert ! — What 
between the lapdogs, the parrots, the jackdaw, and the monkey, 
there is such a barking, squalling, cawing, and chattering! — 
Mrs. Sensitive's ears are not so easily hurt as her feelings. 

But the misfortune is, Mr. Lounger, that her feelings are only 
made for brute creatures, and don't extend to us poor Christians 
of the family. She has no pity on us, no sympathy in the world 
for our distresses. She keeps a chambermaid and a boy besides 

14 



158 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

myself; and I assure you it does not fare near so well with 
us as it does with the lapdogs and the monkey. Nay, I have 
heard an old milkwoman say, who has been long about the 
family, that Mr. Sensitive himself was not treated altogether so 
kindly as some of his lady's four-footed favorites. He was, it 
seems, a good-natured man, and not much given to complain. 
The old woman says, she never heard of his finding fault with 
any thing, but once that Mrs. Sensitive insisted on taking into 
bed a Bologna greyhound, because she said it could not sleep 
a-nights from the coldness of the climate in this country. Yet 
she often talks of her dear, dear Mr. Sensitive, and weeps when 
she talks of him ; and she has got a fine tombstone raised over 
his grave, with an epitaph full of disconsolates, and inconso- 
lables, and what not. To say truth, that is one way even for a 
human creature to get into her good graces ; for I never heard 
her mention any of her dead friends without a great deal of kind- 
ness and tender regrets : but we are none of us willing to pur- 
chase her favor at that rate. 

As for the living they have the misfortune never to be to her 
liking. Ordinary objects of charity we are ordered never to 
suffer to come near her ; she says she cannot bear to hear their 
lamentable stories, for that they tear her poor feelings in pieces. 
Besides, she has discovered, that most of them really deserve no 
compassion, and many sensible worthy people of her acquaint- 
ance have cautioned her against giving way to her sensibility in 
that way ; because, in such cases, the compassion of individuals 
is hurtful to society. There are several poor relations of her 
husband's who, if it had not been for a settlement he made in 
her favor a short time before his death, would have had, I am 
told, by law, the greatest part of his fortune, to whom she never 
gave a shilling in her life. One little boy, her husband's god- 
son, she consented to take into her house ; but she turned him 
out of doors in less than a week, because of a blow he gave to 
Fidele, who was stealing his bread and butter. 

Some of the other members of the family are almost tempted 
to steal bread and butter too. Mrs. Sensitive is an economist, 
though she spends a great deal of money on these nasty dogs 
and monkeys, and contrives to pinch it off us, both back and 
belly, as the saying is. The chambermaid has given her warn- 
ing already on this score ; and the boy says, he will only stay 
till he is a little bigger. As for me, she is pleased to say, that I 
am of an order of beings superior to the others ; and she some- 
times condescends to reason with me. She would persuade 
me, Sir, that it is a sin to eat the flesh of any bird or beast, and 
talks much of a set of philosophers, who went naked, I think, 
who believed that people were turned into beasts and birds ; 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 159 

and that therefore we might chance to eat our father or mother 
in the shape of a goose or a turkey. And she says, how de- 
lighted she would be in the society of those naked philosophers, 
and how much their doctrines agree with her fine feelings ; and 
then she coaxes me, and says, that I have fine feelings too ; 
but indeed I have no such feelings belonging to me : and I 

O DO ' 

know her greens and water don't agree with my feelings at all, 
but quite to the contrary, that there is such a grumbling about 

me And as for people being changed into birds and beasts, 

I think it is heathenish, and downright against the Bible ; and 
yet it is diverting enough sometimes to hear her fancies about 
it. And I can't help having my fancies too ; as t'other morn- 
ing, when the great horned owl sat at table by her, on the chair 
which she has often told me her dear, dear Mr. Sensitive used 
to occupy, and the poor creature looked so grave, and sat as 
silent as mumchance ; — but then she was so kind to the owl ! 
I don't know what her squirrel was changed from, but it is always 
getting into some odd corner or other. It was but yesterday I 
got a sad scold for offering to squeeze it when it had crept Lord 
knows how far up my petticoats ; and my mistress was in such 
a flurry, for fear I should have hurt it. She lets it skip all about 
her without ever starting or wincing, for all her feelings are so 
fine. But these fine feelings are not like the feelings of any 
other body ; and I wish to get into the service of some person 
who has them of a coarser kind, that would be a little more use- 
ful. If Mrs. Heartly therefore continues in her resolution of 
quitting Lady Bidmore's, on account of that old lady's want 
of feeling, I would be very much obliged to you to recommend 
me to the place. I think I can bear a pretty good hand at a 
rubber and a hard brush ; and as for keeping the furniture clean, 
it will be perfect pastime only, in comparison of my mornings 
cleaning out of Mrs. Sensitive's living collection. I hope Lady 
Bidmore, from her education, has never heard any thing of the 
naked philosophers ; and if any other set have taught her, that 
people are changed into commodes, chests of drawers, or bed- 
steads, it signifies very little, as we shall take exceeding good 
care of them, and the belief will have no effect on our dinners 
or suppers. I am, &c. 

Barbara Heartless. 



160 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 



[No. 96. Saturday, December 2, 17S6.] 
Aureus hanc vitam in terris Saturnus agebat — Virgil. 

To the Author of the Lounger : 

Sir, — As in reading, either for instruction or entertainment, 
one is always most struck with what comes nearest to one's self, 
we who are in the country have been particularly attentive to 
your rural papers. The family of which I am a member at pre- 
sent, have been very much entertained with them. We have 
found out several of our acquaintance in the letter of Urbanus ; 
and even the picture of your godmother, though a little anti- 
quated, was too strongly marked for some of our party not to dis- 
cover a resemblance to it. Adrastus's portrait of himself was 
too serious for our meddling with. We never allow- our ima- 
ginations to sport with the sacredness of sorrow. 

Since the receipt of those papers, it has become an amusement 
here to draw sketches for the Lounger ; and some of us last 
night after supper proposed that every one should paint his 
neighbor. To this fancy and a rainy morning you owe this 
letter. I will try to give you the whole group ; I am sure, if I 
could do it justice, it should please your benevolent readers 
better than the picture of Urbanus, though I give that gentleman 
perfect credit for the fidelity as well as the power of his pencil. 
But a family piece of Greuze is more pleasing, though perhaps 
less valued, than one of Hemskirk or Teniers. 

That I may, however, take no advantage, I will begin with 
myself. I am not of so serious a disposition as Adrastus, yet 
am I not altogether without some of that rural sentiment which 
he indulges, and which you describe. I own I had acuter feel- 
ings some five-and-twenty years ago ; but having now lived half 
a century, I am become a good deal less heroic, less visionary, 
and less tender than I was ; yet I have not forgotten what my 
own feelings were, and I can perfectly understand what those 
of younger men are ; I confess I like to see them as warm as I 
myself was at their age, and enjoy a sort of self-flattery in think- 
ing that I have learned to be wiser by being a little older than 
they. Something of the same reflection I venture now and then 
to indulge, from the circumstance of being a bachelor ; I think 
myself as well as I am, and yet I am pleased to see a husband 
and a father happy. And as I am neither from age nor situation 
quite condemned to celibacy, I have that sort of interest in an 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 161 

amiable woman, or a promising child, that makes their company 
very agreeable to me, and I believe mine not unpleasant to them. 
I have, thank God, good health and good spirits ; was bred 
somewhat of a scholar by my father, who lived in town, and a 
pretty complete sportsman by my grandfather, who resided in the 
country. When at school, I stole an hour or two in the evening 
to learn music, and had a tolerable knack at making bad verses 
when at college. In short there are few things come across me 
in which I am quite left out, and I have not the vanity of excel- 
lence to support in any of them. 

I generally spend some months in autumn in the country, and 
this season have passed them very agreeably at the house of a 
gentleman, who, from particular circumstances, I am pretty con- 
fident is the person you once mentioned under the appellation of 
Benevolus. A general idea of his character you have given in 
the paper I allude to : of his family and their country life, will 
you allow me to try a little sketch now 1 

You have hinted at the use Benevolus makes of his wealth. 
In the country, as far as we can gather from those around him, 
he gives largely : but as it is neither from the impulse of sickly 
sentiment or shallow vanity, his largesses tend oftener to incite 
industry than to supply indigence. Indeed, I have been forced 
to observe, that to nurse poverty, is politically speaking, to har- 
bor idleness and vice : to prevent it is much the better way ; for 
a man seldom thrives that does not deserve to thrive ; and, ex- 
cept from some unfortunate accidents, which Benevolus is ever 
ready to pity and to redress, a man is seldom poor without de- 
serving to be so. The occupiers of Benevolus's estate are 
generally thriving : he says, that to promote this is not an expen- 
sive indulgence ; but on the contrary, that he gains by it. It is 
some money advanced at first, says he ; but no capital is more 
productive than that which is laid out on the happiness of one's 
people. Some plans indeed have been suggested to him for 
doubling the revenue of his estate, by dispeopling it of three- 
fourths of its inhabitants ; but he would never consent to them. 
If I wished for money, he replied to an adviser of these schemes, 
there are many trades you should rather recommend to me ; but 
the proudest property of a country gentleman is that of men. 
He has not, however, that inordinate desire for extending the 
bounds of his estate, that some great proprietors have. A gen- 
tleman, whose family had been reduced in its circumstances, 
offered his land to him for sale. Benevolus expressed his sor- 
row for the necessity that forced his neighbor to this measure, 
and, after examining into his affairs, gave him credit to the extent 
of his debts. The young man went abroad, and from the recom- 
mendation of his honesty and worth, and great assiduity in busi- 

14* 



162 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

ness, acquired a fortune sufficient to redeem his affairs. Some- 
body observed what an enviable purchase that gentleman's land 
would have been to Benevolus. " But those acres would not 
have dined with me with such a face of happiness and gratitude 
as Mr. did to-day." 

Such faces, indeed, are a favorite part of the entertainment at 
Benevolus's table. One day of the week, which he jokingly 
calls his wife's rout day, there is an additional leaf put to the 
table, for the reception of some of the principal farmers on his 
estate, from whose conversation, he says, he, derives much useful 
knowledge in country business, and in the management of his 
affairs. He behaves to them in such a way as to remove all re- 
straints from the inequality of rank ; and talking to every man 
on the subject he knows best, makes every man more pleased 
with himself, and more useful to those who hear him. The re- 
ception, indeed, of those guests strongly marks the propriety of 
feeling and of behaviour of the family. There is none of that 
sneer and tittering which one sees among the young gentlemen 
and ladies of other tables ; the children strive who shall help the 
senior farmer of the set ; they ask questions about the different 
members of his household, and sometimes send little presents 
to his children. I have had the charge of some parties of the 
young people, who dined with the farmers in return ; and then 
we have so many long stories when we come back in the evening. 
There are no such eggs, nor fowls, nor cream, as we meet with 
in those excursions. I am always appealed to as a voucher ; 
and I can safely say, that we thought so, especially when we 
took a long walk, or fished, or shot by the way. 

Benevolus has four sons and three daughters. Their educa- 
tion has been scrupulously attended to ; and there are perhaps 
no young people of their age more accomplished. When I 
speak of their accomplishments, I do not mean only their skill 
in the ordinary branches of education, music, dancing, drawing, 
and so forth. I have seen such acquirements pass through the 
memory and the fingers of young people, yet leave little fruit 
behind them. It is not so with my young friends here ; not 
only are the faculties employed, but the mind is enriched by all 
their studies. I have learned a great deal of true philosophy, 
during the rainy days of this season, from the little philosophers 
in Benevolus's library ; and when I indulge myself in a morn- 
ing's lounge beside the young ladies and their mother I always 
rise with sentiments better regulated, with feelings more attuned, 
than when I sat down. The young people's accomplishments 
are sometimes shown, but never exhibited ; brought forth, unas- 
sumingly, to bestow pleasures on others, not to administer to 
their own vanity, or that of their parents. In music their talents 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 163 

are such as might attract the applause of the most skilful ; yet 
they never refuse to exert them in the style that may please the 
most ignorant. Music their father confesses he is fond of, be- 
yond the moderation of a philosopher. It is a relaxation, he 
says, which indulges without debasing the feelings, which em- 
ploys without wasting the mind. The first time I was here, I 
had rode in a very bad day through a very dreary road ; it was 
dark before I reached the house. The transition from the bat- 
tering rain, the howling wind, and a flooded road, to a saloon 
lighted cheerily up, and filled with the mingled sounds of their 
family concert, was so delightful, that I shall never forget it. 
There is, however, a living harmony in the appearance of the 
family, that adds considerably to the pleasure of this and every 
other entertainment. To see how the boys hang upon their fa- 
ther, and with what looks of tenderness the girls gather round their 
mother ! " To be happy at home," said Benevolus one day to 
me, when we were talking of the sex, "is one of the best dowries 
we can give a daughter with a good husband, and the best pre- 
ventive against her choosing a bad one. How many miserable 
matches have I known some of my neighbors' girls make, mere- 
ly to escape from the prison of their father's house !. and, having 
married for freedom, they resolved to be as little as they could 
in their husband's." 

Benevolus's lady, though the mother of so many children, is 
still a very fine woman. That lofty elegance, however, which, 
in her younger days, I remember awing so many lovers into 
adoration, she has now softened into a matron gentleness, which 
is infinitely engaging. There is a modest neatness in her dress, 
a chastened grace in her figure, a sort of timid liveliness in her 
conversation, which we cannot but love ourselves, and are not 
surprised to see her husband look on with delight. In the 
management of her household concerns, she exerts a quiet and 
unperceived attention to her family and her guests, to their con- 
venience, their sports, their'amusements, which accommodates 
every one without the tax of seeing it bustled for. In the little 
circles at breakfast, where the plans of the day are laid, one never 
finds those faces of embarrassment, those whispers of conceal- 
ment, which may be observed in some houses. Mamma is ap- 
plied to in all arrangements, consulted in schemes for excursions, 
in the difficulty of interfering engagements, and is often pressed 
to be of parties, which she sometimes enlivens with her presence. 

Benevolus, in the same manner, is frequently the companion 
of his son's sports, and rides very keenly after an excellent pack 
of harriers, though they say he has gone rather seldomer out this 
season than he used to do, having got so good a deputy in me. 
He was disputing t'other day, with the clergyman of the parish, 



164 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

a very learned and a very worthy man, on the love of sport. 
" I allow, my good Sir," said Benevolus, " that there are better 
uses for time ; but, exclusive of exercise to the body, there are 
so many dissipations more hurtful to the mind, (dissipations even 
of reading, of thinking, and of feeling, which are never reckoned 
on as such,) that if sport be harmless, it is useful. I have ano- 
ther reason for encouraging it in my son. It will give him an 
additional tie to the country, which is to be the chief scene of 
his future life, as a man likes his wife the better that, besides 
more important accomplishments, she can sing and dance ; and 
in both cases, a man of a feeling mind will connect with the 
mere amusement, ideas of affection, and remembrances of ten- 
derness. Methinks I perceive an error in the system of edu- 
cation which some country gentlemen follow with their sons. 
They send them, when lads, to study at foreign universities, 
and to travel into foreign countries, and then expect them, 
rather unreasonably, to become country gentlemen at their re- 
turn. My son shall travel to see other countries, but he shall 
first learn to love his own. There is a polish, there are orna- 
ments, I know, which travel gives ; but the basis must be an 
attachment to home. My son's ruffles may be of lace, but his 
shirt must be of more durable stuff." 

In this purpose Benevolus has perfectly succeeded with his 
son, who is now eighteen, with much of the information of a 
man, but with all the unassuming modesty of a boy. 'Tis his 
pleasure and his pride to acknowledge the claims which his 
native scenes have upon him. He knows the name of every 
hamlet, and of its inhabitants; he visits them when he can be 
of use, gives encouragement to their improvements, and distri- 
butes rewards to the industrious. In return, they feel the most 
perfect fealty and regard to him. The old men observe how 
like he is to his father ; and their wives trace the eyes and the 
lips of his mother. 

The same good sense in their "management, and a similar 
attention to their happiness, is shown to every inferior member 
of Benevolus's household. His domestics revere and love him; 
yet regularity and attention are nowhere so habitual. Attention 
to every guest is one of the first lessons a servant learns at his 
house, and an attention of that useful and benevolent sort, which 
is exactly the reverse of what is practised in some great houses 
in the country, where a man is vastly well attended, provided he 
has attendants of his own to make it needless ; but a person of 
inferior rank may wait sometime before he can find a servant, 
whose province it is to take any care of him. At Benevolus's, 
it is every man's province to show a stranger kindness ; and 
there is an aspect of welcome in every domestic one meets. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 165 

Even the mastiff in the court is so gentle, so humanized by the 
children, and, " bears his faculties so meek," that the very beg- 
gar is not afraid of Trusty, though he bays him. 

In such quarters, and with such society, I do not count the 
weeks of my stay, like your correspondent Urbanus. The 
family talks of not visiting Edinburgh sooner than Christmas, 
and it is not improbable that I may stay with them till that time ; 
so if your coffee-house friend takes notes of arrivals this winter, 
he may possibly mark me down in my seat in the coach des- 
tined for No. 7, answering the questions of two cherub-faced 
boys, who are a sort of pupils of mine here in all the idle branches 
of their education. I am, Sir, 

Your most obedient servant, 

W. G. 



[No. 98. Saturday, December 16, 1786.] 

Nee domos potentum, 

Nossemus, nee imagines superbas. — Mart. 

To the Author of the Lounger : 

Sir, — It is a long time since my last correspondence with 
you ; and indeed, I did not know that your paper continued to 
come out, till lately that I saw it at a certain great house where 
I was on a visit. Of that visit, Mr. Lounger, if you will give 
me leave, I will tell you some particulars. Since I find that 
some great folks take in your paper, it may do them no harm to 
be told a little how things are about them ; or if, as I am apt to 
believe, they are not easily to be mended, it will at least give us 
little folks some satisfaction to get out our thoughts of them. 

Your predecessor, the author of the Mirror, who was kind 
enough to take some interest in my family, was well acquainted 

with its connexion with Lady , the great lady who first set 

my wife and daughters' heads agog about fashion and finery. In 
my last to you, I informed you of our having luckily lost her 
acquaintance, though I had got into another hobble by our inti- 
macy with my rich neighbor, young Mushroom. I am ashamed 
to tell you, Sir, how things have come about ; but, as I told Mr. 
Mirror, I was always rather too easy in my way : I have been 
myself on a visit at the house of the great lady ; (I beg her lord's 



166 PAPERS PROM THE LOUNGER. 

pardon, but that's the way of speaking in our neighborhood). 
But this comes through Mr. Mushroom too. You must know, 
that since he came home, by presents of shawls and muslins to 
my lady, and, as some folks say, by lending some of his spare 

rupees to my lord, he is become a great favorite at lodge. 

And so my lord and lady and he have laid their heads together, 
that Mr. Mushroom shall be member for our county the next 
vacancy ; and they have been driving and riding about among 

us, and giving feasts and dances at lodge and Mushroom 

hall. I fought a little shy, as the saying is ; but Mrs. and Miss 
Mushroom so tickled the ears of my wife and daughters, and 
my lady talked so much of the happiness she had formerly en- 
joyed at my house, and of her regret for having lost the honor 

of my daughter Mrs. 's acquaintance, that they were silly 

enough to forgive all her former neglect of them ; and then they 
so belabored me with the great things that might be expected 
from my lord's patronage, and Mr. Mushroom's attachment to 
my family, (and they had some shawls and muslins too) that I 
at last agreed to give my vote as they wished. Oh ! then, there 
was so much fuss and kindness, and such invitations to go to 

lodge, and so many honors and pleasures — that, in short, 

Mr. Lounger, having got in my corn and sold my cattle, I was 
prevailed on to lay out a little of the money in a new suit, to get 
a new saddle and bridle for my mare, to trim my brown colt for 
a portmanteau horse, and mounting John upon him, whom I 
could best spare at this season too, I accompanied one of my 
brother freeholders, a plain man like myself, who takes a little 

of his wife's advice, to lodge. 

As I knew something of the hours there, I took care that we 
should not reach the house till within a few minutes of four, 
though my neighbor was in a sort of flutter the last three miles, 
for fear of being too late. But when we got off our horses, and 
walked into the lobby, we found we were much too early for the 
house. We had stalked about for some minutes, without know- 
ing where we should go, when, who should I see come in but 
my old acquaintance, Mr. Papillot, though it seems he had for- 
gotten me ; for when I asked him if my lord or his lady were 
within, he gave me a broad stare, and said that some of the ser- 
vants would inform us. None of the servants, however, chose 
to be so kind ; for though one or two peeped out of this and that 
door, they took no sort of concern in us, till at last a big surly- 
looking fellow appeared, pulling down the ruffles of his shirt, and 
bade us follow him into the saloon. Here we found an open 
window, and a half-kindled fire, and were left to cool our heels 
for above an hour, before any living creature appeared. At last, 
a civil enough sort of a gentleman, whose name I never heard, 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 167 

for the family called him nothing but Captain, came in, and 
after talking a little to us about the weather, the roads, and the 
crop, (though he seemed to have but a bad notion of farming,) 
left the room again, telling us that my lord and lady would soon 
be down ; but that dinner was somewhat later to-day than usual, 
as they and their company had been at a bearbaiting, my lord's 
bear having been backed against his neighbor Sir Harry Driver's 
dogs. This accident kept us from our dinner till six o'clock, 
by which time my neighbor and I, who had breakfasted by times, 
were almost famished. Meanwhile we were left to entertain 
ourselves with the pictures, not to mention my lady's French 
lapdog, which a servant brought in (I suppose by the time he 
had been dressed for dinner) and laid on a cushion at the fire- 
side. I found indeed one of the late numbers of the Lounger, 
which I began to read ; but my neighbor Broadcast, yawned so 
on the first page, that I laid it by out of complaisance to him. 
Soon after the lapdog, some of her ladyship's company came 
in, one after another, and did us the honor of staring at us, and 
speaking to the lapdog. The dinner bell was rung before the 
lady appeared, who, to do her justice, behaved politely enough, 
and began to ask half a dozen questions about our wives and 
children, to which she did not wait for an answer ; but to say 
truth, she had her hands full of the bearbaiting company, who, 
when they were all assembled, made a very numerous party. 
My lord entered a few minutes after her ; he did not give him- 
self much trouble about any of us, till on the Captain's whisper- 
ing something in his ear, he came up to where my neighbor and 
I stood, and said he was very happy to have the honor of seeing 

lis at lodge. 

When we went to dinner, we contrived to place ourselves on 
each side of our good friend the Captain, and things went on 
pretty well. I knew that at such a table the victuals were not 
always what they seemed ; and therefore I was cautious of ask- 
ing for any of your figured dishes. At last, however, I got 
helped to a mutton-chop, as I would have called it ; but the 
Captain told me it was a ragout. When I tasted it, it was so 
Frenchified, and smelt so of garlic, which I happen to have an 
aversion to, that I was glad to get rid of it, as soon (and that 
was not very soon) as I could prevail on a servant to take away 
my plate. The Captain, who guessed my taste I suppose, very 
kindly informed me there was roast beef on the sideboard, and 
sent a request to a fine gentleman out of livery, who had the 
carving of it, for a slice to me. But whether he thought I look- 
ed like a cannibal, or that the dish, being little in request, was 
neglected in the roasting, he sent me a monstrous thick cut, so 
red and raw, that I could not touch a morsel of it : so I was 



168 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

obliged to confine my dinner to the leg and wing of a partridge, 
which the second course afforded me. I did not observe how 
my friend Broadcast fared at dinner ; but I saw he catched a 
tartar at the dessert ; for happening to take a mouthful of a 
peach, as he thought it, what should it be but a lump of ice, that 
stung his hollow tooth to the quick, and brought the tears over 
his cheeks. The wine after dinner might have consoled us for 
all these little misfortunes, if we had had time to partake of it ; 
but there the French mode came across us again, and we had 
drank but a few glasses, and had not got half through the history 
of the bearbaiting;, when coffee was brought. 

When we went into the drawing room, we found the card ta- 
bles set, and my lady engaged with a party at whist. She re- 
commended some of us to the care of a friend of her's, a lady 
somewhat advanced in life, though she was still a maiden one, 
for they called her Miss Lurcher, who made up a table at far- 
thing loo. As this was a game I was used to play at home, 
and the stake was so very trifling, I consented to make one. 
My neighbor Broadcast refused, and sat down at the other end 
of the room, to hear one of the young ladies play on the harpsi- 
chord, where he affronted himself by falling asleep. It had been 
as well for some other people that they had been asleep too. 
This game, though it began with farthings, soon mounted up to 
a very considerable sum, and I had once lost to the amount of 
twenty pounds. A lucky reverse of fortune brought me a little 
up again, and I went to supper only five thousand farthings, that 
is, five guineas out of pocket. It would not become me to sus- 
pect any foul play at lodge ; but I could not help observ- 
ing, that Miss Lurcher held Pam plaguily often. I have been 
told since, that she has little other fortune than what she makes 
by her good luck at cards : and yet she was as finely drest aa 
my lady, and had as fine a plume of feathers on her hat : I shall 
never look on that hat again without thinking that I see Pam in 
the front of it. 

When we were shown to our rooms, I looked for the attend- 
ance of John, to whom I had given strict charge to be watchful 
in that matter ; but he was not to be found, and, I was told, had 
never appeared at the lodge after he went with his horses to the 
inn. Before going to bed, I stole into the chamber where my 
friend Broadcast lay, and agreed with him, who seemed as will- 
ing to be gone as myself, that we should cut short our visit, and 
(since French was the word) take a French leave early next 
morning. We were both up by daylight, and groped our way 
down stairs to get our hats and whips, that we might make our 
escape to where John and the horses were lodged. But we 
could not find our road to the lobby, by which we had entered. 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 169 

There did not seem to be a creature stirring in the house ; and, 
after wandering through several empty halls, in one of which we 
found a backgammon table open, with a decanter not quite 
empty, on which was a claret label, we went down a few steps 
to another passage, where we imagined we heard somebody stir- 
ring. But we had not gone many steps when the rattle of a 
chain made us take to our heels ; and it was well we did ; for 
we were within half a yard of being saluted by my lord's bear, 
whose quarters it seemed we had strayed into. The noise of 
our flight, and his pursuit, brought a chambermaid, who happened 
to be up, to our assistance, and by her means we had the good 
fortune to get safely through the lobby into the lawn, from 
whence we had only a mile or two's walk to the inn where John 
was put up. 

For want of John's attendance, I had comforted myself with 
the reflection, that if he had not been employed in taking care 
of me, the horses would fare the better for it. But when we 
reached the house, we found that John had been employed in 
nothing but taking care of himself. The servants of my lord's 
other guests who were there, kept a very good house, as the 
landlord called it : and John had been a good dealjollier at din- 
ner the day before than his master. It was with some difficulty 
we got him on his legs, and brought him along with us. It was 
a long time before my portmanteau could be found : and my new 
bridle, with a plated bit, had been exchanged by some clearer- 
headed fellow, for an old snaffle not worth a groat. 

Such, Sir, is the history of my first visit, and I hope my last, 

to lodge. But as I have found the experience even of 

one visit a little expensive, I think it is doing a kindness to peo- 
ple in my situation, to let them know what they have to expect 
there. When my lord asks a vote again, let it be conditioned 
on the part of the freeholder, that he shall not be obliged to study 
the pictures of his saloon above half an hour, that he shall have 
something to eat and something to drink at dinner, and be in- 
sured from falling into the paws of the bear, or the hands of Miss 
Lurcher- I am, &c. 

John Homespun. 



15 



170 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 



[No. 100. Saturday, December 30, 1786.] 

Among the cautions which prudence and worldly wisdom in- 
culcate on the young, or at least among those sober truths which 
experience often pretends to have acquired, is that danger which 
is said to result from the pursuit of letters and of science, in men 
destined for the labors of business, or the active exertions of 
professional life. The abstraction of learning, the speculations 
of science, and the visionary excursions of fancy, are fatal, it is 
said, to the steady pursuit of common objects, to the habits of 
plodding industry which ordinary business demands. The fine- 
ness of mind, which is created or increased by the study of let- 
ters, or the admiration of the arts, is supposed to incapacitate a 
man for the drudgery by which professional eminence is gained ; 
as a nicely-tempered edge, applied to a coarse and rugged ma- 
terial, is unable to perform what a more common instrument 
would have successfully achieved. A young man destined for 
law or commerce is advised to look only into his folio of prece- 
dents, or his method of book-keeping ; and Dulness is point- 
ed to his homage, as that benevolent goddess, under whose 
protection the honors of station, and the blessings of opulence, 
are to be attained ; while learning and genius are proscribed, as 
leading their votaries to barren indigence, and merited neglect. 
In doubting the truth of these assertions, I think I shall not en- 
tertain any hurtful degree of scepticism, because the general 
current of opinion seems, of late years, to have set too strongly 
in the contrary direction ; and one may endeavor to prop the 
failing cause of literature, without being accused of blameable or 
dangerous partiality. 

In the examples which memory and experience produce, of 
idleness, of dissipation, and of poverty, brought on by an indul- 
gence of literary or poetical enthusiasm, the evidence must ne- 
cessarily be on one side of the question only. Of the few whom 
learning or genius have led astray, the ill success or the ruin is 
marked by the celebrity of the sufferer. Of the many who have 
been as dull as they were profligate, and as ignorant as they 
were poor, the fate is unknown, from the insignificance of those 
by whom it was endured. If we may reason a priori on the 
matter, the chances, I think, should be on the side of literature. 
In young minds of any vivacity, there is a natural aversion to 
the drudgery of business, which is seldom overcome, till the ef- 
fervescence of youth is allayed by the progress of time and habit, 
or till that very warmth is enlisted on the side of their profession, 



PAPERS PROM THE LOUNGER. 171 

by the opening prospects of ambition or emolument. From this 
tyranny as youth conceives it, of attention and of labor, relief is 
commonly sought from some favorite avocation or amusement, 
for which a young man either finds or steals a portion of his 
time ; either patiently plods through his task, in expectation of 
its approach, or anticipates its arrival, by deserting his work be- 
fore the legal period for amusement is arrived. It may fairly be 
questioned, whether the most innocent of those amusements is 
either so honorable or so safe, as the avocations of learning or 
of science. Of minds uninformed and gross, when youthful 
spirits agitate, but fancy and feeling have no power to impel, the 
amusements will generally be either boisterous or effeminate, 
will either dissipate their attention or weaken their force. The 
employment of a young man's vacant hours is often too little at- 
tended to by those rigid masters, who exact the most scrupulous 
observance of the periods destined for business. The waste of 
time is undoubtedly a very calculable loss ; but the waste or the 
depravation of mind is a loss of a much higher denomination. 
The votary of study, or the enthusiast of fancy, may incur the 
first ; but the latter will be suffered chiefly by him whom igno- 
rance, or want of imagination, has left to the grossness of mere 
sensual enjoyments. 

In this, as in other respects, the love of letters is friendly to 
sober manners and virtuous conduct, which in every profes- 
sion is the road to success and to respect. Without adopting 
the common-place reflections against some particular depart- 
ments, it must be allowed, that in mere men of business, there 
is a certain professional rule of right, which is not always hon- 
orable, and though meant to be selfish, very seldom profits. A 
superior education generally corrects this, by opening the mind 
to different motives of action, to the feelings of delicacy, the 
sense of honor, and a contempt of wealth, when earned by a 
desertion of those principles. 

The moral beauty of those dispositions may perhaps rather 
provoke the smile, than excite the imitation, o^ mere men of 
business and the world. But I will venture to tell them, that, 
even on their own principles, they are mistaken. The qualities' 
which they sometimes prefer as more calculated for pushing a 
young man's way in life, seldom attain the end in contemplation 
of which they are not so nice about the means. This is strongly 
exemplified by the ill success of many, who from their earliest 
youth, had acquired the highest reputation for sharpness and 
cunning. Those trickish qualities look to small advantages un- 
fairly won, rather than to great ones honorably attained. The 
direct, the open, and the candid, are the surest road to success 
in every department of life. It needs a certain superior degree 



172 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

of ability to perceive and to adopt this ; mean and uninformed 
minds seize on corners, which they cultivate with narrow views 
to very little advantage : enlarged and well-informed minds em- 
brace great and honorable objects ; and if they fail of obtaining 
them, are liable to none of those pangs which rankle in the 
bosom of artifice defeated, or of cunning over-matched. 

To the improvement of our faculties, as well as of our princi- 
ples, the love of letters appears to be favorable. Letters require 
a certain sort of application, though of a kind perhaps very dif- 
ferent from that which business would recommend. Granting 
that they are unprofitable in themselves, as that word is used in 
the language of the world ; yet, as developing the powers of 
thought and reflection, they may be an amusement of some use, 
as those sports of children in which numbers are used, familiarize 
them to the elements of arithmetic. They give room for the ex- 
ercise of that discernment, that comparison of objects, that dis- 
tinction of causes, which is to increase the skill of the physician, 
to guide the speculation of the merchant, and to prompt the 
arguments of the lawyer ; and though some professions employ 
but very few faculties of the mind, yet there is scarce any branch 
of business in which a man who can think will not excel him 
who can only labor. We shall accordingly find, in many depart- 
ments where learned information seemed of all qualities the least 
necessary, that those who possessed it in a degree above their 
fellows, have found from that very circumstance, the road to 
eminence and to wealth. 

But I must often repeat that wealth does not necessarily 
create happiness, nor confer dignity : A truth which it may be 
thought declamation to insist on, but which the present time 
seems particularly to require being told. The influx of foreign 
riches, and of foreign luxury, which this country has of late ex- 
perienced, has almost levelled every distinction but that of mo- 
ney among us. The crest of noble or illustrious ancestry has 
sunk before the sudden accumulation of wealth in vulgar hands ; 
but that were little, had not the elegance of manners, had not the 
dignity of deportment, had not the pride of virtue, which used to 
characterize some of our high-born names, given way to that tide 
of fortune which has lifted the low, the illiterate, and the unfeeling, 
into stations of which they were unworthy. Learning and genius 
have not always resisted the torrent ; but I know no bulwarks 
better calculated to resist it. The love of letters is connected 
with an independence and delicacy of mind, which is a great pre- 
servative against that servile homage which abject men pay to 
fortune ; and there is a certain classical pride, which from the 
society of Socrates and Plato, Cicero and Atticus, looks down 
with an honest disdain on the wealth-blown insects of modem 



PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 173 

times, neither enlightened by knowledge, nor ennobled by virtue. 
The non omnis moriar of the poet draws on futurity for the defi- 
ciencies of the present; and even in the present, those avenues 
of more refined pleasure, which the cultivation of knowledge, of 
fancy, and of feeling, opens to the mind, give to the votary of 
science a real superiority of enjoyment in what he possesses, and 
free him from much of that envy and regret which less cultivated 
spirits feel from their wants. 

In the possession, indeed, of what he has attained, in that rest 
and retirement from his labors, with the hopes of which his fa- 
tigues were lightened and his cares were soothed, the mere man 
of business frequently undergoes suffering, instead of finding en- 
joyment. To be busy, as one ought, is an easy art ; but to know 
how to be idle, is a very superior accomplishment. This diffi- 
culty is much increased with persons, to whom the habit of em- 
ployment has made some active exertions necessary ; who can- 
not sleep contented in the torpor of indolence, or amuse them- 
selves with those lighter trifles, in which he, who inherited idleness 
as he did fortune, from his ancestors, has been accustomed to find 
amusement. The miseries and mortifications of the " retired 
pleasures" of men of business, have been frequently matter of 
speculation to the moralist, and of ridicule to the wit. But he 
who has mixed general knowledge with professional skill, and 
literary amusement with professional labor, will have some stock 
wherewith to support him in idleness, some spring for his mind 
when unbent from business, some employment for those hours 
which retirement or solitude has left vacant and unoccupied. 
Independence in the use of one's time is not the least valuable 
species of freedom. This liberty the man of letters enjoys ; 
while the ignorant and the illiterate often retire from the thral- 
dom of business, only to become the slaves of languor, intemper- 
ance, or vice. 

But the situation in which the advantages of that endowment 
of mind which letters bestow are chiefly conspicuous, is old age, 
when a man's society is necessarily circumscribed, and his pow- 
ers of active enjoyment are unavoidably diminished. Unfit for 
the bustle of affairs and the amusements of his youth, an old man, 
if he has no source of mental exertion or employment, often set- 
tles into the gloom of melancholy and peevishness, or petrifies 
his feelings by habitual intoxication. From an old man whose 
gratifications were solely derived from those sensual cappetites 
which time has blunted, or from those trivial amusements of 
which youth only can share, age has cut off almost every source 
of enjoyment. But to him who has stored his mind with the in- 
formation, and can still employ it in the amusement of letters, 
this blank of life is admirably rilled up. He acts, he thinks, and 

15* 



174 PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 

he feels with that literary world whose society he can at all times 
enjoy. There is perhaps no state more capable of comfort to 
ourselves, or more attractive of veneration from others, than that 
which such an old age affords ; it is then the twilight of the pas- 
sions, when they are mitigated but not extinguished, and spread 
their gentle influence over the evening of our days, in alliance 
with reason and in amity with virtue. 

Nor perhaps, if fairly estimated, are the little polish and com- 
placencies of social life less increased by the cultivation of let- 
ters, than the enjoyment of solitary or retired leisure. To the 
politeness of form and the ease of manner, business is naturally 
unfavorable, because business looks to the use, not the decora- 
tion of things. But the man of business who has cultivated 
letters, will commonly have softened his feelings, if he has not 
smoothed his manner or polished his address. He may be 
awkward, but will seldom be rude ; may trespass in the igno- 
rance of ceremonial, but will seldom offend against the substan- 
tial rules of civility. In conversation, the pedantry of profession 
unavoidably insinuates itself among men of every calling. The 
lawyer, the merchant and the soldier, (this last perhaps, from ob- 
vious enough causes, the most of the three,) naturally slide into 
the accustomed train of thinking and the accustomed style of 
conversation. The pedantry of the man of learning is generally 
the most tolerable and the least tiresome of any : and he who 
has mixed a certain portion of learning with his ordinary pn> 
fession, has generally corrected, in a considerable degree, the 
abstraction of the one and the coarseness of the other. 

In the more important relations of society, in the closer inter- 
course of friend, of husband, and of father, that superior deli- 
cacy and refinement of feeling which the cultivation of the mind 
bestows, heighten affection into sentiment, and mingle with such 
connexions a dignity and tenderness, which gives its dearest 
value to our existence. In fortunate circumstances, those feel- 
ings enhance prosperity ; but in the decline of fortune, as in the 
decline of life, their influence and importance are chiefly felt. 
They smooth the harshness of adversity, and on the brow of 
misfortune print that languid smile, which their votaries would 
often not exchange for the broadest mirth of those unfeelingly 
prosperous men, who possess good fortune, but have not a heart 
for happiness. 



END OF THE PAPERS FROM THE LOUNGER. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

IN TWO PARTS. 



VIRGIN1BUS PUERISQUE CANTO. HoTCLCe. 



PART I. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Though the world is but little concerned to know in what 
situation the author of any performance that is offered to its 
perusal may be, yet I believe it is generally solicitous to learn 
some circumstances relating to him ; for my own part, I have 
always experienced this desire in myself, and read the advertise- 
ment at the beginning, and the postscript at the end of a book, 
if they contain any information of that sort, with a kind of melan- 
choly inquietude about the fate of him in whose company, as it 
were, I have passed some harmless hours, and whose sentiments 
have been unbosomed to me with the openness of a friend. 

The life of him who has had an opportunity of presenting 
to the eye of the public the following tale, though sufficiently 
checkered with vicissitude, has been spent in a state of ob^ 
scurity, the recital of which could but little excite admiration, or 
gratify curiosity. The manner of his procuring the story con-, 
tained in the following sheets, is all he thinks himself entitled 
to relate. 

After some wanderings at that time of life which is most sub-, 
ject to wandering, I had found an opportunity of revisiting the 
scenes of my earlier attachments, and returned to my native spot 
with that tender emotion, which the heart, that can be moved at 
all, will naturally feel on approaching it. The remembrance of 
my infant days, like the fancied vibration of pleasant sounds in 
the ear, was still alive in my mind ; and I flew to find out the 
marks by which even inanimate things were to be known, as 
the friends of my youth, not forgotten, though long unseen, nor 
lessened in my estimation, from the pride of refinement, or tho 
comparison of experience. 

In the shade of an ancient tree, that centred a circle of elms, 
at the end of the village where I was born, I found my old 
acquaintance, Jack Ryland. He was gathering moss with one 
hand, while the other held a flannel bag, containing earth worms, 
to be used as bait in angling. On seeing me, Ryland dropped 



178 INTRODUCTION. 

his moss on the ground, and ran with all the warmth of friend- 
ship to embrace me. " My dear Tom," said he, " how happy 
I am to see you ! you have travelled, no doubt, a woundy long 
way since we parted. — You find me in the old way here. — I be- 
lieve they have but a sorry notion of sport in Italy. — While I 
think on't, look on this minnow ; I'll be hanged if the sharpest- 
eyed trout in the river can know it from the natural. It was 
but yesterday now — You remember the cross-tree pool, just 
below the parsonage — there I hooked him, played him half an 
hour by the clock, and landed him at last as far down as the 
church-way ford. As for his size — Lord ! how unlucky it is 
that I have not my landing net here ! for now I recollect that I 
marked his length on the outside of the pole ; but you shall see 
it some other time." 

Let not my reader be impatient at my friend Ryland's ha- 
rangue. I give it him, because I would have characters deve- 
lope themselves. To throw, however, some farther light upon 
Ryland's : 

He was first cousin to a gentleman who possessed a consid- 
erable estate in our county ; born to no fortune, and not much 
formed by nature for acquiring one, he found pretty early that 
he should never be rich, but that he might possibly be happy ; 
and happiness to him was obtained without effort, because it 
was drawn from sources which it required little exertion to sup- 
ply. Trifles were the boundaries of his desire, and their attain- 
ment the goal of his felicity. A certain neatness in all those 
little arts in which the soul has no share, an immoderate love of 
sport, and a stiil more immoderate love of reciting its progress, 
with the addition of one faculty which has some small connex- 
ion with letters, to wit, a remarkable memory for puzzles and 
enigmas, made up his character ; and he enjoyed a privilege 
uncommon to the happy, that no one envied the means by which 
he attained what every one pursues. 

I interrupted his narrative by some inquiries about my former 
acquaintance in the village ; for Ryland was the recorder of the 
place, and could have told the names, families, relations, and 
intermarriages of the parish, with much more accuracy than the 
register. 

" Alack-a-day !" said Jack, " there have been many changes 
among us since you left this r here has died the old gauger 
Wilson, as good a cricket player as ever handled a bat ; Rooke, 
at The Salutation, is gone too ; and his wife has left the parish 
and settled in London, where, I am told, she keeps a gin shop 
in some street they call Southwark ; and the poor parson, whom 
you were so intimate with, the worthy old Annesly ;" — he look- 
ed piteously towards the churchyard, and a tear trickled down 



INTRODUCTION. 179 

his cheeK. — " I understand you," said I, " the good man is 
dead !" — " Ah ! there is more than you think about his death," 
answered Jack ; " he died of a broken heart !" I could make 
no reply but by an ejaculation, and Ryland accompanied it with 
another tear ; for though he commonly looked but on the sur- 
face of things, yet Ryland had a heart to feel. 

" In the middle of yon clump of alders," said he, " you may 
remember a small house, that was once farmer Higgins's. It is 
now occupied by a gentlewoman of the name of Wistanly, who 
was formerly a sort of servant companion to Sir Thomas Sin- 
dall's mother, the widow of Sir William. Her mistress, who 
died some years ago, left her an annuity, and that house for life, 
where she has lived ever since. I am told she knows more of 
Annesly's affairs than any other body ; but she is so silent and 
shy, that I could never get a word from her on the subject. She 
is reckoned a wonderful scholar by the folks of the village ; and 
you, who are a man of reading, might perhaps be a greater fa- 
vorite with her. If you choose it, I shall introduce you to her 
immediately." I accepted his offer, and we went to her house 
together. 

We found her sitting in a little parlor, fitted up in a taste much 
superior to what might have been expected from the appearance 
of the house, with some shelves, on which I observed several 
of the most classical English and French authors. She rose 
to receive us with something in her manner greatly above her 
seeming rank. Jack introduced me as an acquaintance of her 
deceased friend, Mr. Annesly. " Then, Sir," said she, " you 
knew a man who had few fellows !" lifting her eyes gently up- 
wards. The tender solemnity of her look answered the very 
movement which the remembrance had awakened in my soul ; 
and I made no other reply than by a tear. She seemed to take 
it in good part, and we met on that ground like old friends, who 
had much to ask, and much to be answered. 

When we were going away, she begged to have a moment's 
conversation with me alone ; Ryland left us together. 

" If I am not deceived, Sir," said she, " in the opinion I have 
formed of you, your feelings are very different from those of Mr. 
Ryland, and indeed of most of my neighbors in the village. You 
seem to have had a peculiar interest in the fate of that worthiest 
of men, Mr. Annesly. The history of that life of purity which he 
led, of that calamity by which it was shortened, might not be an 
unpleasing, though a melancholy recital to you ; but in this box, 
which stands on the table by me, is contained a series of letters 
and papers, which, if you will take the trouble of reading them, 
will save me the task of recounting his sufferings. You will 
find many passages which do not indeed relate to it ; but, as 



180 INTRODUCTION. 

they are often the entertainment of my leisure hours, I have 
marked the most interesting parts on the margin. This depo- 
site, Sir, though its general importance be small, my affection 
for my departed friend makes me consider as a compliment, 
and I commit it to you, as to one in whose favor I have con- 
ceived a prepossession from that very cause." 

Those letters and papers were the basis of what I now offer 
to the public. Had it been my intention to make a book, I might 
have published them entire ; and I am persuaded, notwithstand- 
ing Mrs. Wistanly's remark, that no part of them would have 
been found more foreign to the general drift of this volume, than 
many that have got admittance into similar collections. But I 
have chosen rather to throw them into the form of a narrative, 
and contented myself with transcribing such reflections as na- 
turally arise from the events, and such sentiments as the situa- 
tions alone appear to have excited. There are indeed many 
suppletory facts, which could not have been found in this collec- 
tion of Mrs. Wistanly's. These I was at some pains to pro- 
cure through other channels. How I was enabled to procure 
them, the reader may conceive, if his patience can hold out to 
the end of the story. To account for that now, would delay its 
commencement, and anticipate its conclusion ; for both which 
effects this introductoiy chapter may have already been subject 
to reprehension* 



THE 



MAN OF THE WORLD 



PART I. 



CHAPTER I. 



In which are some particulars previous to the commencement of the 
main story. 

Richard Annesly was the only child of a wealthy trades- 
man in London, who, from the experience of that profit which 
his business afforded himself, was anxious it should descend to 
his son. Unfortunately the young man had acquired a certain 
train of ideas which were totally averse to that line of life which 
his father had marked out for him. There is a degree of senti- 
ment, which, in the bosom of a man destined to the drudgery of 
the world, is the source of endless disgust. Of this, young 
Annesly was unluckily possessed ; and as he foresaw, or thought 
he foresaw, that it would not only endanger his success, but take 
from the enjoyment of prosperity, supposing it attained, he de- 
clined following that road which his father had smoothed for his 
progress ; and, at the risk of those temporal advantages which 
the old gentleman's displeasure on this occasion might deny him, 
entered into the service of the church, and retired to the country 
on one of the sma'lest endowments she has to bestow. 

That feeling which prevents the acquisition of wealth, is 
formed for the support of poverty. The contentment of the 
poor, I had almost said their pride, buoys up the spirit against 
the depression of adversity, and gives to our very wants the 
appearance of enjoyment. 

Annesly looked on happiness as confined to the sphere of 
sequestered life. The pomp of greatness, the pleasures of the 
affluent, he considered as only productive of turbulence, dis- 
quiet, and remorse; and thanked Heaven for having placed him 
in his own little shed, which, in his opinion, was the residence of 
pure and lasting felicity. 

With this view of things his father's ideas did by no means 
16 



182 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

coincide. His anger against his son continued till his death ; 
and, when that event happened, with the preposterous revenge 
of many a parent, he consigned him to misery, as he thought, 
because he would not be unhappy in that way which he had in- 
sisted on his following, and cut him off from the inheritance of 
his birth, because he had chosen a profession which kept him in 
poverty without it. 

Though Annesly could support the fear of poverty, he could 
not easily bear the thought of a dying father's displeasure. On 
receiving intelligence of his being in a dangerous situation, he 
hastened to London, with the purpose of wringing from him his 
forgiveness for the only offence with which his son had ever 
been chargeable ; but he arrived too late. His father had 
breathed his last on the evening of the day preceding that on 
which he reached the metropolis, and his house was already in 
the possession of a nephew, to whom his son understood he had 
left every shilling of his fortune. This man had been bred a 
haberdasher, at the express desire of old Annesly, and had all 
that patient dulness which qualifies for getting rich, which, there- 
fore, in the eyes of his uncle, was the most estimable of all 
qualities. He had seldom seen Richard Annesly before, for 
indeed this last was not very solicitous of his acquaintance. 
He recollected his face, however, and desiring him to sit down, 
informed him particularly of the settlement which his relentless 
father had made. " It was unlucky," said the haberdasher, 
"that you should have made choice of such a profession; but a 
parson, of all trades in the world, he could never endure. It is 
possible you may be low in cash at this time ; if you want a 
small matter to buy mournings or so, I shall not scruple to 
advance you the needful ; and I wish you would take them of 
neighbor Bullock the woollendraper, who is as honest a man as 
any of the trade, and would not impose on a child." Annesly's 
eyes had been hitherto fixed on the ground, nor was there want- 
ing a tear in each for his unnatural father. He turned them on 
his cousin with as contemptuous a look as his nature allowed 
them to assume, and walked out of the house without uttering 
a word. 

He was now thrown upon the world with the sentence of 
perpetual poverty for his inheritance. He found himself in 
the middle of a crowded street in London, surrounded by the 
buzzing sons of industry, and shrunk back at the sense of his 
own insignificance. In the faces of those he met, he saw no 
acknowledgment of connexion, and felt himself, like Cain after 
his brother's murder, an unsheltered, unfriended outcast. He 
looked back to his father's door; but his spirit was too mild 
for reproach — a tear dropped from his eye as he looked I 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 183 

There was in London one person, whose gentle nature, ho 
knew, would feel for his misfortunes ; yet to that one of all 
others, his pride forbade to resort. 

Harriet Wilkins was the daughter of a neighbor of his father's, 
who had for some time given up business, and lived on the 
interest of 4000Z., which he had saved in the course of it. 
From this circumstance, his acquaintance, old Annesly, enter- 
tained no very high opinion of his understanding ; and did not 
cultivate much friendship with a man whom he considered as a 
drone in the hive of society. But in this opinion, as in many 
others, his son had the misfortune to differ from him. He used 
frequently to steal into Wilkins' house of an evening, to enjoy 
the conversation of one who had passed through life with observ- 
ation, and had known the labor of business, without that con- 
traction of soul which it often occasions. Harriet was com- 
monly of the party, listening, with Annesly, to her father's dis- 
course, and, with Annesly, offering her remarks on it. She was 
not handsome enough to attract notice ; but her look was of that 
complacent sort which gains on the beholder, and pleases from 
the acknowledgment that it is beneath admiration. 

Nor was her mind ill suited to this " index of the soul." 
Without that brilliancy which excites the general applause, it 
possessed those inferior sweetnesses which acquire the general 
esteem ; sincere, benevolent, inoffensive, and unassuming. No- 
body talked of the sayings of Miss Wilkins ; but every one 
heard her with pleasure, and her smile was the signal of uni- 
versal complacency. 

Annesly found himself insensibly attached to her by a chain, 
which had been imposed without art, and suffered without con- 
sciousness. During his acquaintance with Harriet, he had come 
to that period of life, when men are most apt to be impressed 
with appearances. In fact, he had looked on many a beauty 
with a rapture which he thought sincere, till it was interrupted by 
the reflection that she was not Harriet Wilkins ; there was a 
certain indefinable attraction which linked him every day closer 
to her, and artlessness of manner had the effect (which I pre- 
sume, from their practice, few young ladies believe it to have) of 
securing the conquest she had gained. 

From the wealth which old Annesly was known to possess, 
his son was doubtless, in the phrase of the world, a very advan- 
tageous match for Miss Wilkins ; but when her father discover- 
ed the young man to be serious in his attachment to her, he fre- 
quently took occasion to suggest how unequal the small fortune 
he could leave his daughter was to the expectations of the son 
of a man worth 30,000?., and, with a frankness peculiar to him- 
self, gave the father to understand, that his son's visits wero 



184 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

rather more frequent than was consistent with that track of pru- 
dence, which the old gentleman would probably mark out for 
him. The father, however, took little notice of this intelligence ; 
the truth was, that, judging by himself, he gave very little credit 
to it, because it came from one, who, according to his concep- 
tion of things, should, of all others, have concealed it from his 
knowledge. 

But though his son had the most sincere attachment to Miss 
Wilkins, his present circumstances rendered it, in the language 
of prudence, impossible for them to marry. They contented 
themselves, therefore, with the assurance of each other's con- 
stancy, and waited for some favorable change of condition which 
might allow them to be happy. 

The first idea which struck Annesly's mind on the disappoint- 
ment he suffered from his father's settlement, was the effect it 
would have on his situation with regard to Harriet. There is 
perhaps nothing more bitter in the lot of poverty, than the dis- 
tance to which it throws a man from the woman he loves ; that 
pride I have before taken notice of, which in every other circum- 
stance tends to support, serves but to wound him the deeper in 
this. That feeling now turned Annesly's feet from his Harriet's 
door ; yet it was now that his Harriet seemed the more worthy 
of his love, in proportion as his circumstances rendered it hope- 
less. A train of soft reflections at length banished this rugged 
guest from his heart- — " 'Tis but taking a last farewell !" said he 
to himself, and trod back the steps which he had made. 

He entered the room where Harriet was sitting by her father, 
with a sort of diffidence of his reception that he was not able to 
hide ; but Wilkins welcomed him in such a manner as soon dis- 
sipated the restraint under which the thoughts of his poverty had 
laid him. " This visit, my dear Annesly," said he, " flatters me, 
because it shows you leaning on my friendship. I am not 
ignorant of your present situation, and I know the effect which 
prudent men will say it should have on myself; that I differ 
from them, may be the consequence of spleen, perhaps, rather 
than generosity ; for I have been at war with the world from a 
boy. Come hither Harriet ; this is Richard Annesly. His 
father, it is true, has left him 30,000/. poorer than it was once 
expected he would ; but he is Richard Annesly still ! you will 
therefore look upon him as you did before. I am not Stoic 
enough to deny, that riches afford numberless comforts and con- 
veniences which are denied to the poor ; but that riches are not 
essential to happiness I know, because I have never yet found 
myself unhappy ; — nor shall I now sleep unsound, from the 
consciousness of having added to the pressure of affliction, or 
wounded merit afresh, because fortune had already wounded it. 



THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 185 

Liberal minds will delight in extending the empire of virtue ; 
for my own part, I am happy to believe, that it is possible for an 
attorney to be honest, and a tradesman to think like Wilkins. 



CHAPTER II. 

More introductory matter. 

Wilkins having thus overlooked the want of fortune in his 
young friend, the lovers found but little hindrance to the com- 
pletion of their wishes. Harriet became the wife of a poor man, 
who returned the obligation he owed to her and her father's 
generosity, by a tenderness and affection rarely found in wed- 
lock, because there are few minds from whom in reason they 
can be expected. 

His father-in-law, to whom indeed the sacrifice was but trifling, 
could not resist the joint request of his daughter and her husband, 
to leave the town and make one of their family in the country. 
In somewhat less than a year he was the grandfather of a boy, 
and nearly at the same distance of time after, of a girl, both of 
whom, in his opinion, were cherubs; but even the gossips around 
them owned they had never seen more promising children. The 
felicity of their little circle was now, perhaps, as perfect as the 
lot of humanity admits ; nor would it have been easy to have 
found a group, whose minds were better formed to deserve or 
attain it. Health, innocence, and good humor, were of their 
household ; and many an honest neighbor, who never troubled 
himself to account for it, talked of the goodness of Annesly's 
ale, and the cheerfulness of his fireside. I have been often 
admitted of the party, though I was too young for a companion 
to the seniors, and too old for a playfellow to the children ; but 
no age, and often indeed no condition, excluded from a partici- 
pation of their happiness ; and I have seen little Billy, before 
he could speak to be well understood, lead in a long-bearded 
beggar, to sing his song in his turn, and be rewarded with a cup 
of that excellent liquor I mentioned. 

Their felicity was too perfect to be lasting ; — such is the pro- 
verbial opinion of mankind. The days of joy, however, are not 
more winged in their course than the days of sorrow ; but we 
count not the moments of their duration with so scrupulous an 
exactness. 

16* 



186 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

Three years after the birth of her first daughter, Mrs. Annesly 
was delivered of another ; but the birth of the last was fatal to 
her mother, who did not many days survive it. 

Annesly's grief on this occasion was immoderate ; nor could 
all the endeavors of his father-in-law, whose mind was able to 
preserve more composure, prevail upon him, for some days, to 
remember the common offices of life, or leave the room in which 
his Harriet had expired. Wilkins' grief, however, though of a 
more silent sort, was not less deep in its effects ; and when the 
turbulence of the other's sorrow had yielded to the soothings of 
time, the old man retained all that tender regret, due to the death 
of a child, an only child, whose filial duty had led him down the 
slope of life without suffering him to perceive the descent. The 
infant she had left behind her was now doubly endeared to his 
father and him, from being considered as the last memorial of 
its dying mother ; but of this melancholy kind of comfort they 
were also deprived in a few months by the smallpox. Wilkins 
seemed, by this second blow, to be loosened from the little hold 
he had struggled to keep of the world, and his resignation was 
now built upon the hopes, not of overcoming his affliction, but 
of escaping from its pressure. The serenity which such an idea 
confers, possesses, of all others, the greatest dignity, because it 
possesses, of all others, the best assured confidence, leaning on 
a basis that is fixed above the rotation of sublunary things. An 
old man, who has lived in the exercise of virtue, looking back, 
without a blush, on the tenor of his past days, and pointing to 
that better state, where alone he can be perfectly rewarded, is a 
figure the most venerable that can well be imagined. Such did 
Wilkins now exhibit. 

" My son," said he to Annesly, " I feel that I shall not be 
with you long ; yet I leave not the world with that peevish dis- 
gust, which is sometimes mistaken for the courage that over- 
comes the dread of death. I lay down my being with gratitude, 
for having so long possessed it, without having disgraced it by 
any great violation of the laws of him by whom it was bestowed. 
There is something we cannot help feeling, on the fall of those 
hopes we had been vainly diligent to rear. I had looked forward 
to some happy days, amidst a race of my Harriet's and yours ; 
but to the good there can be no reasonable regret from the dis- 
appointment of such expectations, because the futurity they trust 
in after death, must far exceed any enjoyment which a longer life 
here could have afforded. It is otherwise with the prospect of 
duty to be done ; these two little ones I leave to your tenderness 
and care ; you will value life, as it gives you an opportunity of 
forming them to virtue. — Lay me beside my Harriet." 

The old man's prediction was but too well verified ; he did not 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 187 

long survive this pathetic declaration. His son-in-law was now 
exposed, alone and unassisted, to the cares of the world, in- 
creased by the charge of his boy and girl ; but the mind will sup- 
port much, when called into exertion by the necessity of things. 
His sorrow yielded by degrees to the thoughts of that active duty 
he owed his children ; in time his fireside was again cheered by 
their sports around it ; and though he sometimes looked upon 
them with a tear at the recollection of the past, yet would he as 
often wipe it from his eye, in silent gratitude to Heaven, for the 
enjoyment of the present, and the anticipation of the future. 



CHAPTER III. 

The openings of two characters with which the reader may afterwards be 
better acquainted. 

His son had a warmth of temper, which the father often ob- 
served with mingled pleasure and regret ; with pleasure, from 
considering the generosity and nobleness of sentiment it bespoke ; 
with regret, from a foreboding of the many inconveniences to 
which its youthful possessor might naturally be exposed. 

But Harriet was softness itself. The sprightliness of her 
gayest moments would be checked by the recital of the distress 
of a fellow-creature, and she would often weep all night from 
some tale which her maid had told of fictitious disaster. Her 
brother felt the representation of worth ill-treated, or virtue op- 
pressed, with indignation against the oppressor, and wished to 
be a man, that he might, like Jack the Giant-killer, gird on his 
sword of sharpness, and revenge the wrongs of the sufferer ; 
while his sister pressed his hand in her's, and trembled for the 
danger to which she imagined him exposed ; nay, she has been 
afterwards heard to cry out in her sleep, in a hurried voice, 
"You shall not go, my Billy, papa and I will die if you do." 

A trifling incident, of which I find an account in one of their 
father's letters, will discriminate their characters better than a 
train of the most labored expression. 

At the bottom of his garden ran a little rivulet, which was 
there dammed up to furnish water for a mill below. On the 
bank was a linnet's nest, which Harriet had discovered in her 
rambles, and often visited with uncommon anxiety for the callow 
brood it contained. One day, her brother and she were at play 
on the green at a little distance, attended by a servant of their 



188 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

father's, when a favorite terrier of Billy's happened to wander 
amongst the bushes where this nest was sheltered. Harriet, 
afraid of the consequences, begged the servant to run, and pre- 
vent his doing mischief to the birds. Just as the fellow came 
up, the dog had lighted on the bush, and surprised the dam, but 
was prevented from doing her much harm by the servant, who 
laid hold of him by the neck, and snatched his prey out of his 
mouth. The dog, resenting this rough usage, bit the man's fin- 
ger till it bled, who, in return, bestowed a hearty drubbing upon 
him, without regarding the entreaties or the threats of his little 
master. Billy, enraged at the sufferings of his favorite, resolved 
to wreak his vengeance where it was in his power, and running 
up to the nest, threw it down, with all its unfledged inhabitants 
to the ground. " Cruel Billy !" cried his sister, while the tears 
ran down her cheeks. He turned sullenly from her, and walked 
up to the house, while she, with the man's assistance, gathered 
up the little flutterers, and having fastened the nest as well as 
she could, replaced them safely within it. 

When she saw her brother again, he pouted, and would not 
speak to her. She endeavored to regain his favor by kindness, 
but he refused her caresses ; she sought out the dog, who had 
suffered on her linnet's account, and stroking him on the head, 
fed him with some cold meat from her own hand. When her 
brother saw it, he called him away. She looked after Billy till 
he was gone, and then burst into tears. 

Next day they were down at the rivulet again. Still was 
Harriet endeavoring to be reconciled, and still was her brother 
averse to a reconciliation. He sat biting his thumb, and looking 
angrily to the spot where his favorite had been punished. 

At that instant the linnet, in whose cause the quarrel had 
begun, was bringing out her younglings to their first imperfect 
flight, and two of them, unfortunately taking a wrong direction, 
fell short into the middle of the pool. Billy started from the 
ground, and, without considering the depth, rushed into the 
water, where he was over head and ears the second step that he 
made. His sister's screams alarmed the servant, who ran to 
his assistance : but before he got to the place, the boy had reach- 
ed a shallower part of the pool, and, though staggering from 
his first plunge, had saved both linnets, which he held carefully 
above the water, and landed safely on the opposite bank. He 
returned to his sister by a ford below, and, presenting her the 
birds, flung his arms round her neck, and blubbering, asked her 
if she would now forgive his unkindness. 

Such were the minds which Anuesly's tuition was to form. 
To repress the warmth of temerity, without extinguishing the 
generous principles from which it arose, and to give firmness to, 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 189 

sensibility where it bordered on weakness, without searing its 
feelings where they led to virtue, was the task he had marked 
out for his industry to accomplish. He owned that his plan was 
frequently interrupted on both sides by the tenderness of paternal 
affection ; but he accustomed himself to remember, that for his 
children he was accountable to God and their country. Nor 
was the situation I have described without difficulties, from the 
^delicacy of preventing inclinations in the extreme, which were 
laudable in degree ; " but here also," said Annesly, " it is to be 
remembered, that no evil is so pernicious as that which grows 
in the soil from which good should have sprung." 



CHAPTER IV. 

A very brief account of their education. 

Annesly was not only the superintendent of his children's 
manners, but their master in the several branches of education. 
Reading, writing, arithmetic, the elements of mathematics and 
geography, with a competent knowledge of the French and 
Italian languages, they learned together ; and while Billy was 
employed with his father in reading Latin and Greek, his sister 
received instruction in the female accomplishments, from a bet- 
ter sort of servant, whom Annesly kept for that purpose, whose 
station had once been superior to servitude, and whom he still 
treated more as a companion than a domestic. This instruct- 
ress, indeed, she lost when about ten years old ; but the want 
was more than supplied by the assistance of another, to wit, 
Mrs. Wistanly, who devoted many of her leisure hours to the 
daughter of Annesly, whom she had then got acquainted with, 
and whom reciprocal worth had attached to her with the sincerest 
friendship and regard. The dancing-master of a neighboring 
town paid them a weekly visit for their instruction in the science 
he professed ; at which time also were held their family concerts, 
where Annesly, who was esteemed in his youth a first-rate player 
on the violin, used to preside. Billy was an excellent second ; 
Mrs. Wistanly or her pupil undertook for the harpsichord, and 
the dancing-master played bass as well as he could. He was 
not a very capital performer, but he was always very willing ; 
and found as much pleasure in his own performance as the best 



190 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

of them. Jack Ryland, too, would sometimes join in a catch, 
though indeed he had but two, Christ-church-bells., and Jack, 
thou'rt a toper ; and Annesly alleged that he was often out in 
the last ; but Jack would never allow it. 

Besides these, there were certain evenings appropriated to 
exercises of the mind. " It is not enough," said Annesly, " to 
put weapons into those hands which have been never taught the 
use of them : the reading we recommend to youth will store 
their minds with intelligence, if they attend to it properly ; but 
to go a little farther, we must accustom them to apply it, we 
must teach them the art of comparing the ideas with which it has 
furnished them." In this view, it was the practice, at those 
stated times I have mentioned, for Billy, or his sister, to read a 
select passage of some classical author, on whose relations they 
delivered opinions, or on whose sentiments they offered a com- 
ment. Never was seen more satisfaction on a countenance, 
than used to enlighten their father's, at the delivery of those ob- 
servations which his little philosophers were accustomed to make. 
Indeed there could scarcely, even to a stranger, be a more pleas- 
ing exhibition ; their very errors were delightful, because they 
were the errors of benevolence, generosity and virtue. 

As punishments are necessary in all societies, Annesly was 
obliged to invent some for the regulation of his ; they consisted 
only of certain modifications of disgrace. One of them I shall 
mention, because it was exactly opposite to the practice of most 
of our schools : while there, offences are punished by doubling 
the task of the scholar ; with Annesly the getting of a lesson, or 
performing of an exercise, was a privilege of which a forfeiture 
was incurred by misbehaviour ; to teach his children, that he 
offered them instruction as a favor, instead of pressing it as a 
hardship. 

Billy had a small part of his father's garden allotted him for 
his peculiar property, in which he wrought himself, being fur- 
nished with no other assistance from the gardener than directions 
how to manage it, and parcels of the seeds which they enabled 
him to sow. When he had brought these to maturity, his father 
purchased the produce. Billy, with part of the purchase money 
was to lay in the stores necessary for his future industry, and 
the overplus he had the liberty of bestowing on charitable uses 
in the village. The same institution prevailed as to his sister's 
needlework, or embroidery : " For it is necessary," said An- 
nesly, " to give an idea of property, but let it not be separated 
from the idea of beneficence." 

Sometimes, when these sums were traced to their disburse- 
ments, it was found that Harriet's money did not always reach 
the village, but was intercepted by the piteous recital of a wan- 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 191 

dering beggar by the way ; and that Billy used to appropriate 
part of his to purposes not purely eleemosynary ; as, when he 
once parted with two-thirds of his revenue, to reward a little boy 
for beating a big one, who had killed his tame sparrow; or 
another time, when he went the blameable length of comforting 
with a shilling a lad who had been ducked in a horsepond, for 
robbing the orchard of a miser. 

It was chiefly in this manner of instilling sentiments, (as 
in the case of the charitable establishment I have mentioned,) 
by leading insensibly to the practice of virtue, rather than by 
downright precept, that Annesly proceeded with his children ; 
for it was his maxim, that the heart must feel, as well as the 
judgment be convinced, before the principles we mean to teach 
can be of habitual service ; and that the mind will always be more 
strongly impressed with ideas which it is led to form of itself 
than with those which it passively receives from another. When, 
at any time, he delivered instructions, they were always clothed 
in the garb rather of advices from a friend, than lectures from a 
father ; and were listened to with the warmth of friendship, as 
well as the humility of veneration. It is in truth somewhat sur- 
prising how little intimacy subsists between parents and their 
children, especially of our sex ; a circumstance which must 
operate, in conjunction with their natural partiality, to keep the 
former in ignorance of the genius and disposition of the latter. 

Besides all this, his children had the general advantage of a 
father's example. They saw the virtues he inculcated attended 
by all the consequences in himself, which he had promised them 
as their reward. Piety in him was recompensed by peace 
of mind, benevolence by self-satisfaction, and integrity by the 
blessings of a good conscience. 

But the time at last arrived when his son was to leave those 
instructions, and that example, for the walks of more public life. 
As he was intended, or, more properly speaking, seemed to have 
an inclination for a learned profession, his father sent him, in his 
twentieth year, to receive the finishings of education necessary 
for that purpose, at one of the universities. Yet he had not, I 
have heard him say, the most favorable opinion of the general 
course of education there ; but he knew, that a young man might 
there have an opportunity of acquiring much knowledge, if he 
were inclined to it ; and that good principles might preserve him 
uncorrupted, even amidst the dangers of some surrounding dis- 
sipation. Besides, he had an additional inducement to this plan, 
from the repeated request of a distant relation, who filled an 
office of some consequence at Oxford, and had expressed a 
very earnest desire to have his young kinsman sent thither, and 
placed under his own immediate inspection. 



192 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

Before he set out for that place, Annesly, though he had a 
sufficient confidence in his son, yet thought it not improper to 
mark out to him some of those errors to which the inexperienced 
are liable. He was not wont, as I have before observed, to 
press instruction upon his children ; but the young man himself 
seemed to expect it, with the solicitude of one who ventured, not 
without anxiety, to leave that road, where the hand of a parent 
and friend had hitherto guided him in happiness and safety. 
The substance of what he delivered to his son and daughter (for 
she too was an auditor of his discourses) I have endeavored to 
collect from some of the papers Mrs. Wistanly put into my 
hands, and to arrange, as far as it seemed arrangeable, in the 
two following chapters. 

It will not, however, after all, have a perfectly connected ap- 
pearance, because, I imagine it was delivered at different times, 
as occasion invited, or leisure allowed him : but its tendency 
appeared to be such, that even under these disadvantages, I 
could not forbear inserting it. 



CHAPTER V. 

Parental instructions. — Of suspicion and confidence. — Ridicule. — Religion.— 
True pleasure. — Caution to the female sex. 

You are now leaving us, my son, said Annesly, to make your 
entrance into the world ; for though, from the pale of a college, 
the bustle of ambition, the plodding of business, and the tinsel 
of gayety, are supposed to be excluded ; yet as it is the place 
where the persons that are to perform in those several characters 
often put on the dresses of each, there will not be wanting, even 
there, those qualities that distinguish in all. I will not shock 
your imagination, with the picture which some men, retired from 
its influence, have drawn of the world ; nor warn you against 
enormities, into which, I should equally affront your understand- 
ing and your feelings, did I suppose you capable of falling. 
Neither would I arm you with that suspicious caution which 
young men are sometimes advised to put on ; they who always 
suspect will often be mistaken, and never be happy. Yet there 
is a wide distinction between the confidence which becomes a 
man, and the simplicity that disgraces a fool ; he who never 
trusts is a niggard of his soul, who starves himself, and by whom 
no other is enriched ; but he who gives every one his confidence, 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 193 

and every one his praise, squanders the fund that should serve 
for the encouragement of integrity, and the reward of excellence. 

In the circles of the world, your notice may be frequently 
attracted by objects glaring, not useful ; and your attachment 
won to characters whose surfaces are showy, without intrinsic 
value : In such circumstances, be careful not always to impute 
knowledge to the appearance of acuteness, or give credit to 
opinions according to the confidence with which they are urged. 
In the more important articles of belief or conviction, let not the 
flow of ridicule be mistaken for the force of argument. Nothing 
is so easy as to excite a laugh at that time of life, when serious- 
ness is held to be an incapacity of enjoying it ; and no wit so 
futile, or so dangerous, as that which is drawn from the perverted 
attitudes of what is in itself momentous. There are in most 
societies a set of self-important young men, who borrow conse- 
quence from singularity, and take precedency in wisdom from 
the unfeeling use of the ludicrous : this is at best a shallow 
quality ; in objects of eternal moment, it is poisonous to society. 
I will not now, nor could you then, stand forth armed at all points 
to repel the attacks which they may make on the great principles 
of your belief; but let one suggestion suffice, exclusive of all 
internal evidence, or extrinsic proof of revelation. He who 
would undermine those foundations upon which the fabric of our 
future hope is reared, seeks to beat down that column which 
supports the feebleness of humanity : — let him but think a mo- 
ment, and his heart will arrest the cruelty of his purpose ; — 
would he pluck its little treasure from the bosom of poverty? 
Would he wrest its crutch from the hand of age, and remove 
from the eye of affliction the only solace of its woe ? The way 
we tread is rugged at best ; we tread it, however, lighter by the 
prospect of that better country to which we trust it will lead ; 
tell us not that it will end in the gulf of eternal dissolution, or 
break off in some wild, which fancy may fill up as she pleases, 
but reason is unable to delineate ; quench not that beam which, 
amidst the night of this evil world has cheered the despondency 
of ill-requited worth, and illumined the darkness of suffering 
virtue. 

The two great movements of the soul, which the moulder of 
our frames has placed in them, for the incitement of virtue and 
the prevention of vice, are the desire of honor and the fear of 
shame ; but the perversion of these qualities, which the refine- 
ment of society is peculiarly unhappy in making, has drawn their 
influence from the standard of morality, to the banners of its 
opposite ; into the first step on which a young man ventures in 
those paths which the cautions of wisdom have warned him to 
avoid, he is commonly pushed by the fear of that ridicule which 

17 



. 



194 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

he has seen levelled at simplicity, and the desire of that applause 
which the spirit of the profligate has enabled him to acquire. 

Pleasure is in truth subservient to virtue. When the first is 
pursued without those restraints which the last would impose, 
every infringement we make on them lessens the enjoyment we 
mean to attain ; and nature is thus wise in our construction, that 
when we would be blessed beyond the pale of reason, we are 
blessed imperfectly. It is not by the roar of riot, or the shout 
of the bacchanal, that we are to measure the degree of pleasure 
which he feels ; the grossness of the sense he gratifies is equally 
unsusceptible of the enjoyment, as it is deaf to the voice of rea- 
son, and obdurated by the repetition of debauch, is incapable of 
that delight, which the finer sensations produce, which thrills in 
the bosom of delicacy and virtue. 

Libertines have said, my Harriet, that the smiles of your sex 
attend them, and that the pride of conquest, where conquest is 
difficult, overcomes the fear of disgrace and defeat. I hope 
there is less truth in this remark than is generally imagined ; let 
it be my Harriet's belief that it cannot be true for the honor of 
her sex ; let it be her care that, for her own honor, it may be 
false as to her. Look on those men, my child, even in their 
gayest and most alluring garb, as creatures dangerous to the 
peace, and destructive of the welfare, of society ; look on them 
as you would look on a beautiful serpent, whose mischief we 
may not forget while we admire the beauties of its skin. I 
marvel, indeed, how the pride of the fair can allow them to 
show a partiality to him who regards them as being merely sub- 
servient to his pleasure, in whose opinion they have lost all that 
dignity which excites reverence, and that excellence which 
creates esteem. 

Be accustomed, my love, to think respectfully of yourself; it 
is the error of the gay world to place your sex in a station some- 
what unworthy of a reasonable creature ; and the individuals of 
ours, who address themselves to you, think it a necessary ingre- 
dient in their discourse, that it should want every solid property 
with which sense and understanding would invest it. The 
character of a female pedant is undoubtedly disgusting ; but it 
is much less common than that of a trifling or an ignorant wo- 
man; the intercourse of the sex is, in this respect, advantageous, 
that each has a desire to please, mingled with a certain deference 
for the other ; let not this purpose be lost on one side, by its being 
supposed, that, to please yours, we must speak something, in 
which fashion has sanctified folly, and ease lent her garb to 
insignificance. In general, it should never be forgotten, that, 
though life has its venial trifles, yet they cease to be innocent 
when they encroach upon its important concerns ; the mind that 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 195 

is often employed about little things, will be rendered unfit for 
any serious exertion ; and, though temporary relaxations may 
recruit its strength, habitual vacancy will destroy it. 



CHAPTER VI. 

In continuation. — Of knowledge. — Knowledge of the world. — Politeness. — 
Honor. — Another rule of action suggested. 

As the mind may be weakened by the pursuit of trivial matters, 
so its strength may be misled in deeper investigations. 

It is a capital error in the pursuit of knowledge, to suppose 
that we are never to believe what we cannot account for. There 
is no reason why we should not attempt to understand every 
thing ; but to own, in some instances, our limited knowledge, is 
a piece of modesty in which lies the truest wisdom. 

Let it be our care that our effort in its tendency is useful,, and 
our effort need not be repressed ; for he who attempts the 
impossible, will often achieve the extremely difficult ; but the 
pride of knowledge often labors to gain what, if gained, would 
be useless, and wastes exertion upon objects that have been left 
unattained from their futility. Men possessed of this desire you 
may perhaps find, my son, in that seat of science whither you 
are going; but remember, that what claims our wonder does 
not always merit our regard ; and in knowledge and philosophy 
be careful to distinguish, that the purpose of research should 
ever be fixed on making simple what is abstruse, not abstruse 
what is simple ; and that difficulty in acquisition will no more 
sanctify its inexpediency, than the art of tumblers, who have 
learned to stand on their heads, will prove that to be the proper 
posture for man. 

There is a pedantry in being master of paradoxes contrary to 
the common opinions of mankind, which is equally disgusting to 
the illiterate and the learned. The peasant who enjoys the 
beauty of the tulip is equally delighted with the philosopher, 
though he knows not the powers of the rays from which its 
colors are derived; and the boy who strikes a ball with his 
racket is as certain whither it will be driven by the blow, as if 
he were perfectly versant in the dispute about matter and motion. 
Vanity of our knowledge is generally found in the first stages of 
its acquirement, because we are then looking back to that rank 



196 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

we have left, of such as know nothing at all. Greater advan- 
tages cure us of this, by pointing our view to those above us ; 
and when we reach the summit, we begin to discover, that human 
knowledge is so imperfect, as not to warrant any vanity upon it. 
In particular arts, beware of that affectation of speaking tech- 
nically, by which ignorance is often disguised, and knowledge 
disgraced. They who are really skilful in the principles of 
science, will acquire the veneration only of shallow minds by 
talking scientifically ; for to simplify expression is always the 
effect of the deepest knowledge and the clearest discernment. 
On the other hand, there may be many who possess taste, 
though they have not attained skill ; who, if they will be con- 
tented with the expression of their own feelings, without labor- 
ing to keep up the borrowed phrase of erudition, will have their 
opinion respected by all whose suffrages are worthy of being 
gained. The music, the painting, the poetry of the passions, is 
the property of every one who has a heart to be moved ; and 
though there may be particular modes of excellence which 
national or temporary fashions create, yet that standard will 
ever remain which alone is common to all. 

The ostentation of learning is indeed always disgusting in the 
intercourse of society ; for even the benefit of instruction re- 
ceived cannot allay the consciousness of inferiority, and re- 
markable parts more frequently attract admiration than procure 
esteem. To bring forth knowledge agreeably, as well as use- 
fully, is perhaps very difficult for those who have attained it in 
the secluded walks of study and speculation, and is an art 
seldom found but in men who have likewise acquired some 
knowledge of the world. 

I would, however, distinguish between that knowledge of the 
world that fits us for intercourse with the better part of mankind, 
and that which we gain by associating with the worst. 

But there is a certain learned rust, which men as well as 
metals acquire ; it is, simply speaking, a blemish in both ; the 
social feelings grow callous from disuse, and we lose that spring 
of little affections, which sweeten the cup of life as we drink it. 

Even the ceremonial of the world, shallow as it may appear, 
is not without its use ; it may indeed take from the warmth of 
friendship, but it covers the coldness of indifference ; and if it 
has repressed the genuine overflowings of kindness, it has 
smothered the turbulence of passion and animosity. 

Politeness taught as an art is ridiculous ; as the expression of 
liberal sentiment and courteous manners, it is truly valuable. 
There is a politeness of the heart which is confined to no rank, 
and dependant upon no education : the desire of obliging, which 
a, man possessed of this quality will universally show, seldom 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 197 

fails of pleasing, though his style may differ from that of modern 
refinement. I knew a man in London of the gentlest manners, 
and of the most winning deportment, whose eye was ever 
brightened with the smile of good-humor, and whose voice was 
mellowed with the tones of complacency — and this man was a 
blacksmith. 

The falsehood of politeness is often pleaded for, as unavoida- 
ble in the commerce of mankind ; yet I would have it as little 
indulged as possible. There is a frankness without rusticity, 
an openness of manner prompted by good-humor, but guided by 
delicacy, which some are happy enough to possess, that en- 
gages every worthy man, and gives not offence even to those 
whose good opinion, though of little estimation, it is the busi- 
ness of prudence not wantonly to lose. 

The circles of the gay, my children, would smile to hear me 
talk of qualities which my retired manner of life has allowed me 
so little opportunity of observing ; but true good-breeding is not 
confined within those bounds to which their pedantry (if I may 
use the expression) would restrict it ; true good-breeding is the 
sister of philanthropy, with feelings perhaps not so serious or 
tender, but equally inspired by a fineness cf soul, and open to 
the impressions of social affection. 

As politeness is the rule of the world's manners, so has it 
erected Honor the standard of its morality ; but its dictates too 
frequently depart from wisdom with respect to ourselves, from 
justice and humanity with respect to others. Genuine honor 
is undoubtedly the offspring of both ; but there has arisen a 
counterfeit, who, as he is more boastful and showy, has more 
attracted the notice of gayety and grandeur. Generosity and 
courage are the virtues he boasts of possessing ; but his gene- 
rosity is a fool, and his courage a murderer. 

The punctilios, indeed, on which he depends, for his own 
peace and the peace of society, are so ridiculous in the eye of 
reason, that it is not a little surprising, how so many millions of 
reasonable beings should have sanctified them with their mutual 
consent and acquiescence : that they should have agreed to 
surround the seats of friendship, and the table of festivity, with 
so many thorns of inquietude and snares of destruction. 

You will probably hear, my son, very frequent applause be- 
stowed on men of nice and jealous honor, who suffer not the 
smallest affront to pass unquestioned or unrevenged ; but do not 
imagine that the character which is most sacredly guarded, is 
always the most unsullied in reality, nor allow yourself to envy 
a reputation for that sort of valor which supports it. Think how 
easily that man must pass his time, who sits like a spider in the 
midst of his feeling web, ready to catch the minutest occasion 

17* 



198 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

for quarrel and resentment. There is often more real pusilla- 
nimity in the mind that starts into opposition where none is 
necessary, than m him who overlooks the wanderings of some 
unguarded act or expression, as not of consequence enough to 
challenge indignation or revenge. I am aware, that the young 
and high-spirited will say, that men can only judge of actions, 
and that they will hold as cowardice, the blindness I would re- 
commend to affront or provocation ; but there is a steady cool- 
ness and possession of one's self, which this principle will com- 
monly bestow, equally remote from the weakness of fear, and 
the discomposure of anger, which gives to its possessor a station 
that seldom fails of commanding respect, even from the ferocious 
votaries of sanguinary Honor. 

But some principle is required to draw a line of action, above 
the mere precepts of moral equity, 

"Beyond the fixt and settled rules ;" 

and for this purpose is instituted the motive of Honor : — there is 
another at hand, which the substitution of this phantom too often 
destroys — it is Conscience — whose voice, were it not stifled, 
(sometimes by this very false and spurious Honor) would lead 
directly to that liberal construction of the rules of morality which 
is here contended for. Let my children never suffer this monitor 
to speak unheeded, nor drown its whispers, amidst the din of 
pleasure or the bustle of life. Consider it as the representative 
of that power who spake the soul into being, and in whose dis- 
posal existence is ! To listen, therefore, to his unwritten law 
which he promulgates by its voice, has every sanction which his 
authority can give. It were enough to say that we are mortal : 
but the argument is irresistible, when we remember our im- 
mortality. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 199 

CHAPTER VII. 

Introducing a new and capital character. 

It was thus the good man instructed his children. 

But, behold ! the enemy came in the night, and sowed tares ! 

Such an enemy had the harmless family of which Annesly was 
the head. It is ever to be regretted, that mischief is seldom so 
weak but that worth may be stung by it : in the present instance, 
however, it was supported by talents misapplied, and ingenuity 
perverted. 

Sir Thomas Sindall enjoyed an estate of 5000/. a year in 
Annesly's parish. His father left him when but a child, pos- 
sessed of an estate to the amount we have just mentioned, and 
of a very large sum of money besides, which his economy had 
saved him from its produce. His mother, though a very good 
woman, was a very bad parent ; she loved her son, as too many 
mothers do, with that instinctive affection which nature has be- 
stowed on the lowest rank of creatures. She loved him as her 
son, though he inherited none of her virtues ; and because she 
happened to have no other child, she reared this in such a man- 
ner as was most likely to prevent the comfort he might have 
afforded herself, and the usefulness of which he might have been 
to society. In short, he did what he liked, at first, because his 
spirit should not be confined too early ; and afterwards he did 
what he liked, because it was passed being confined at all. 

But his temper was not altogether of that fiery kind, which 
some young men so circumstanced, and so educated, are pos- 
sessed of. There was a degree of prudence which grew up 
with him from a boy, that tempered the sallies of passion, to 
make its object more sure in the acquisition. When at school, 
he was always the conductor of mischief, though he did not often 
participate in its execution : and his carriage to his master was 
such, that he was a favorite without any abilities as a scholar, 
and acquired a character for regularity, while his associates were 
daily flogged for transgressions which he had guided in their 
progress, and enjoyed the fruits of in their completion. There 
sometimes arose suspicions of the reality ; but even those who 
discovered them mingled a certain degree of praise with their 
censure, and prophesied that he would be a man of the world. 

As he advanced in life, he fashioned his behaviour to the dif- 
ferent humors of the gentlemen in the neighborhood ; he hunted 
with the foxhunters through the day, and drank with them in the 



200 THE MAN OF THE WORLD, 

evening. With these he diverted himself at the expense of the 
sober prigs, as he termed them, who looked after the improve- 
ment of their estates when it was fair, and read a book within 
doors when it rained ; and to-morrow he talked on farming with 
this latter class, and ridiculed the hunting phrases, and boisterous 
mirth of his yesterday's companions. They were well pleased 
to laugh at one another, while he laughed in his sleeve at both. 
This was sometimes discovered, and people were going to be 
angry — but somebody said in excuse, that Sindall was a man 
of the world. 

While the Oxford terms lasted, (to which place he had gone 
in the course of modern education) there were frequent reports 
in the country of the dissipated life he led ; it was even said that 
he had disappeared from college for six weeks together, during 
which time he was suspected of having taken a trip to London 
with another man's wife ; this was only mentioned in a whisper ; 
it was loudly denied ; people doubted at first, and shortly for- 
got it. Some little extravagances, they said, he might have been 
guilty of. It was impossible for a man of two-and-twenty to 
seclude himself altogether from company ; and you could not 
look for the temperance of a hermit in a young baronet of 5000/. 
a-year. It is indispensable for such a man to come forth into 
life a little ; with 5000L a year, one must be a man of the ivorld. 

His first tutor, whose learning was as extensive as his man- 
ners were pure, left him in disgust ; sober people wondered at 
this ; but he was soon provided with another with whom he had 
got acquainted at Oxford ; one whom every body declared to be 
much fitter for the tuition of young Sindall, being, like his pupil^ 
a man of the world. 

But though his extravagance in squandering money, under 
the tuition of this gentleman, was frequently complained of, yet 
it was found that he was not altogether thoughtless of its acqui- 
sition. Upon the sale of an estate in his neighborhood, it was 
discovered, that a very advantageous mortgage, which had stood 
in the name of another, had been really transacted for the benefit 
of young Sindall. His prudent friends plumed themselves upon 
this intelligence ; and, according to their use of the phrase, be- 
gan to hope, that, after sowing his wild oats» Sir Thomas would 
turn out a man of the world. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 201 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The footing on which he stood with Annesly and his family. 

Though such a man as we have described might be reckoned 
a valuable acquaintance by many, he was otherwise reckoned 
by Annesly : he had heard enough (though he had heard but 
part) of his character, to consider him as a dangerous neighbor; 
but it was impossible to avoid sometimes seeing him, from whose 
father he had got the living which he now occupied. There is no 
tax so heavy on a little man, as an acquaintance with a great one. 
Annesly had found this in the lifetime of Sir William Sindall. 
He was one of those whom the general voice pronounces to be 
a good sort of man, under which denomination I never look for 
much sense, or much delicacy. In fact, the baronet possessed 
but little of either ; he lived hospitably for his own sake, as well 
as that of his guests, because he liked a good dinner and a bottle 
of wine after it ; and in one part of hospitality he excelled, which 
was, the faculty of making every body drunk that had not un- 
common fortitude to withstand his attacks. Annesly's cloth 
protected him from this last inconvenience ; but it often drew 
from Sir William a set of jests, which his memory had enabled 
him to retain, and had passed through the heirs of his family, 
like their estate, down from the days of that monarch of face- 
tious memory, Charles the Second. 

Though to a man of Annesly's delicacy all this could not but 
be highly disagreeable, yet gratitude made him Sir William's 
guest often enough, to show that he had not forgot that at- 
tention which his past favors demanded ; and Sir William re- 
collected them from another motive ; to wit, that they gave a 
sanction to those liberties he sometimes used with him who 
had received them. This might have been held sufficient to 
have cancelled the obligation ; but Annesly was not wont to 
be directed by the easiest rules of virtue ; the impression still 
remained, and it even descended to the son after the death of 
the father. 

Sindall, therefore, was a frequent guest at his house ; and, 
though it might have been imagined, that the dissipated mind 
of a young man of his fortune would have found but little delight 
in Annesly's humble shed, yet he seemed to enjoy his simplicity 
with the highest relish ; he possessed indeed that pliancy of 
disposition that could wonderfully accommodate himself to the 
humor of every one around him ; and he so managed matters in 



202 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

his visits to Annesly, that this last began to imagine the reports 
he had heard concerning him, to be either entirely false, or at 
least aggravated much beyond truth. 

From what motive soever Sindall began these visits, he soon 
discovered a very strong inducement to continue them. Harriet 
Annesly was now arrived at the size, if not the age, of woman- 
hood ; and possessed an uncommon degree of beauty and ele- 
gance of form. In her face, joined to the most perfect symmetry 
of features, was a melting expression, suited to that sensibility 
of soul we have mentioned her to be endowed with. In her 
person, rather above the common size, she exhibited a degree 
of ease and gracefulness which nature alone had given, and art 
was not allowed to diminish. Upon such a woman Sindall could 
not look with indifference ; and according to his principles of 
libertinism, he had marked her as a prey, which his situation 
gave him opportunities of pursuing, and which one day he could 
not fail to possess. 

In the course of his acquaintance, he began to discover, that 
the softness of her soul was distant from simplicity, and that 
much art would be necessary to overcome a virtue, which the 
hand of a parent had carefully fortified. He assumed, therefore, 
the semblance of those tender feelings, which were most likely 
to gain the esteem of the daughter, while he talked with that ap- 
pearance of candor and principle, which he thought necessary 
to procure him the confidence of the father. He would fre- 
quently confess, with a sigh, that his youth had been sometimes 
unwarily drawn into error; then grasp Annesly's hand, and, 
looking earnestly in his face, beg him to strengthen by his coun- 
sel the good resolutions which, he thanked Heaven, he had been 
enabled to make. Upon the whole, he continued to gain such 
a degree of estimation with the family, that the young folks 
spoke of his seeming good qualities with pleasure, and their 
father mentioned his supposed foibles with regret. 






THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 203 



CHAPTER IX. 

Young Annesly goes to Oxford. — The friendship of Sindall. — Its 
consequences. 

Upon its being determined that young Annesly should go to 
Oxford, Sir Thomas showed him remarkable kindness and at- 
tention. He conducted him thither in his own carriage ; and 
as his kinsman, to whose charge he was committed, happened 
accidentally to be for some time unable to assign him an apart- 
ment in his house, Sindall quitted his own lodgings to accom- 
modate him. To a young man newly launched into life, re- 
moved from the only society he had ever known, to another 
composed of strangers, such assiduity of notice could not be but 
highly pleasing ; and in his letters to his father, he did not fail 
to set forth, in the strongest manner, the obligations he had 
to Sir Thomas. His father, whom years had taught wisdom, 
but whose warmth of gratitude they had not diminished, felt 
the favor as acutely as his son ; nor did the foresight of meaner 
souls arise in his breast to abate its acknowledgment. 

The hopes which he had formed of his Billy were not disap- 
pointed. He very soon distinguished himself in the university 
for learning and genius ; and in the correspondence of his kins- 
man, were recited daily instances of the notice which his parts 
attracted. But his praise was cold in comparison with Sin- 
dall's ; he wrote to Annesly of his young friend's acquirements 
and abilities, in a strain of enthusiastic encomium ; and seemed 
to speak the language of his own enjoyment, at the applause of 
others which he repeated. It was on this side that Annesly's 
soul was accessible ; for on this side lay that pride which is the 
weakness of all. On this side did Sindall overcome it. 

From those very qualities also which he applauded in the son, 
he derived the temptation with which he meant to seduce him : 
for such was the plan of exquisite mischief he had formed, be- 
sides the common desire of depravity to make proselytes from 
innocence, he considered the virtue of the brother as that struc- 
ture, on the ruin of which he was to accomplish the conquest of 
the sister's. He introduced him, therefore, into the company 
of some of the most artful of his own associates, who loudly 
echoed the praises he lavished on his friend, and showed, or 
pretended to show, that value for his acquaintance, which was 
the strongest recommendation of their own. The diffidence 
which Annesly's youth and inexperience had at first laid upon 



204 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

his mind, they removed by the encouragement which their ap- 
probation of his opinions bestowed ; and he found himself 
indebted to them both for an ease of delivering his sentiments, 
and the reputation which their suffrages conferred upon him. 

For all this, however, they expected a return ; and Annesly 
had not fortitude to deny it — an indulgence for some trivial 
irregularities which they now and then permitted to appear in 
their conversation. At first their new acquaintance took no 
notice of them at all ; he found that he could not approve, and 
it would have hurt him to condemn. By degrees he began to 
allow them his laugh, though his soul was little at ease under the 
gayety which his features assumed ; once or twice, when the 
majority against him appeared to be small, he ventured to argue, 
though with a caution of giving offence, against some of the sen- 
timents he heard. Upon these occasions, Sindall artfully joined 
him in the argument ; but they were always overcome. He had 
to deal with men who were skilled, by a mere act of the memory,, 
in all the sophisms which voluptuaries have framed to justify the 
unbounded pursuit of pleasure ; and those who had not learning 
to argue, had assurance to laugh. Yet Annesly's conviction 
was not changed ; but the edge of his abhorrence to vice was 
blunted ; and though his virtu© kept her post, she found herself 
galled in maintaining it. 

It was not till some time after, that they ventured to solicit his 
participation of their pleasures : and it was not till after many 
solicitations that his innocence was overcome. But the pro- 
gress of their victories was rapid after his first defeat ; and he 
shortly attained the station of experienced vice, and began to 
assume a superiority from the undauntedness with which he 
practised it. 

But it was necessary, the while, to deceive that relation under 
whose inspection his father had placed him ; in truth, it was no 
very hard matter to deceive him. He was a man of that ab- 
stracted disposition, that is seldom conversant with any thing 
around it. Simplicity of manners was, in him, the effect of an 
apathy in his constitution, (increased by constant study) that 
was proof against all violence of passion or desire ; and he 
thought, if he thought of the matter at all, that all men were like 
himself, whose indolence could never be overcome by the plea- 
sure of pursuit, or the joys of attainment. Besides all this, Mr* 
Lumley, that tutor of Sindall' s whom we have formerly men- 
tioned, was a man the best calculated in the world for lulling 
his suspicions asleep, if his nature had ever allowed them to 
arise. This man, whose parts were of that pliable kind that 
easily acquire a superficial knowledge of every thing, possessed 
the talent of hypocrisy as deeply as the desire of pleasure ; and 






THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 205 

while in reality he was the most profligate of men, he had that 
command of passion, which never suffered it to intrude where 
he could wish it concealed ; he preserved, in the opinion of Mr. 
Jephson, the gravity of a studious and contemplative character, 
which was so congenial to his own ; and he would often rise 
from a metaphysical discussion with the old gentleman, leaving 
him in admiration of the depth of his reading, and the acuteness 
of his parts, to join the debauch of Sindall and his dissolute 
companions. 

By his assistance, therefore, Annesly's dissipation was effect- 
ually screened from the notice of his kinsman ; Jephson was 
even prevailed on, by false suggestions, to write to the country 
continued encomiums on his sobriety and application to study ; 
and the father, who was happy in believing him, inquired no 
further. 



CHAPTER X. 

A very gross attempt is made on Annesly's honor. 

Sindall having brought the mind of his proselyte to that 
conformity of sentiment to which he had thus labored to reduce 
it, ventured to discover to him the passion he had conceived for 
his sister. The occasion, however, on which he discovered it, 
was such a one as he imagined gave him some title to be lis- 
tened to. 

Annesly had an allowance settled on him by his father, rather 
in truth above what his circumstances might warrant with pro- 
priety ; but as the feelings of the good man's heart were, in 
every virtuous purpose, somewhat beyond the limitations of his 
fortune, he inclined rather to pinch himself, than to stop any 
channel through which advantage might flow to his son ; and 
meant his education and his manners to be in every respect 
liberal and accomplished. 

But this allowance ill sufficed to gratify the extravagance 
which his late connexion had taught him ; he began very soon 
to know a want which he had never hitherto experienced : at 
first, this not only limited his pleasures, but began to check the 
desire of them, and in some measure served to awaken that 
sense of contrition which their rotation had before overcome. 
But Sindall took care that he should not be thus left to reflec- 
tion ; and as soon as he guessed the cause, prevented its con- 

18 



206 THE MAN OF THE WORLD 

tinuance by an immediate supply, offered, and indeed urged, 
with all the open warmth of disinterested friendship. From 
being accustomed to receive, Annesly at last overcame the 
shame of asking, and applied repeatedly for sums, under the 
denomination of loans, for the payment of which he could only 
draw upon contingency. His necessities were the more frequent, 
as, amongst other arts of pleasure which he had lately acquired, 
that of gaming had not been omitted. 

Having one night lost a sum considerably above what he was 
able to pay, to a member of their society with whom he was in 
no degree of intimacy, he gave him his note payable the next 
morning, (for this was the regulated limitation of their credit) 
though he knew that to-morrow would find him as poor as to- 
night. On these particular occasions, when his hours would 
have been so highly irregular, that they could not escape the 
censure of Mr. Jephson or his family, he used to pretend, that 
for the sake of disentangling some point of study with Sindall 
and his tutor, he had passed the night with them at their lodg- 
ings, and what small portion of it was allowed for sleep he did 
actually spend there. After this loss, therefore, he accompanied 
Sindall home, and could not, it may well be supposed, conceal 
from him the chagrin it occasioned. His friend, as usual, ad- 
vanced him money for discharging the debt. Annesly, who 
never had had occasion to borrow so much from him before, 
expressed his sorrow at the necessity which his honor laid him 
under, of accepting so large a sum. "Poh!" answered Sindall, 
" 'tis but a trifle, and what a man must now and then lose to be 
thought genteelly of." " Yes, if his fortune can afford it," said 
the other gloomily. " Ay, there's the rub," returned his friend, 
" that fortune should have constituted an inequality where nature 
made none. How just is the complaint of Jaffier, 

" Tell me why, good Heaven ! 
Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit, 
Aspiring thoughts, and elegant desires, 
That fill the happiest man :" 

That such should be the lot of my friend, I can regret — thanks 
to my better stars, I can more than regret it. What is the value 
of this dross (holding a handful of gold) but to make the situa- 
tion of merit level with its deservings ? Yet, believe me, there 
are wants which riches cannot remove, desires which sometimes 
they cannot satisfy ; even at this moment, your seeming happy 
Sindall, in whose lap fortune has poured her blessings, has his 
cares, my Annesly, has his inquietudes, which need the hand of 
friendship to comfort and to soothe." 

Annesly, with all the warmth of his nature, insisted on par- 



THE MAIS OF THE WORLD. 207 

taking his uneasiness, that if he could not alleviate, he might at 
least condole with his distress. 

Sindall embraced him. " I know your friendship," said he, 
" and I will put it to the proof. You have a sister, the lovely, 
the adorable Harriet ; she has robbed me of that peace which 
the smile of fortune cannot restore, as her frown has been unable 
to take away ! Did you know the burning of this bosom ! — But 
I speak unthinkingly what perhaps my delicacy should not have 
whispered, even in the ear of friendship. Pardon me — the ardor 
of a love like mine may be forgiven some extravagance." 

Annesly's eyes sufficiently testified his inward satisfaction at 
this discovery ; but he recollected the dignity which his situa- 
tion required, and replied calmly, " that he pretended no guid- 
ance of his sister's inclinations ; that his own gratitude for Sir 
Thomas's favors he had ever loudly declared ; and that he knew 
his sister felt enough on his account, to make the introduction 
of her brother's friend a more than usually favorable one." 

" But my situation," returned Sindall, " is extremely particu- 
lar ; you have heard my opinions on the score of love often 
declared ; and, trust me, they are the genuine sentiments of my 
heart. The trammels of form, which the unfeeling custom of 
the world has thrown upon the freedom of mutual affection, are 
insupportable to that fineness of soul, to which restraint and 
happiness are terms of opposition. Let my mistress be my 
mistress still, with all the privileges of a wife, without a wife's 
indifference, or a wife's disquiet — My fortune, the property of 
her and her friends, but that liberty alone reserved, which is the 
strongest bond of the affection she should wish to possess from 
me." — -He looked steadfastly in Annesly's face, which, by this 
time, began to assume every mark of resentment and indigna- 
tion. He eyed him askant with an affected smile : " You smile, 
Sir," said Annesly, whose breath was stifled by the swelling of 
his heart — Sindall laughed aloud : "laraa wretched hypocrite," 
said he, " and could contain myself no longer." " So you were 
but in jest, it seems," replied the other, settling his features into 
a dry composure. " My dear Annesly," returned he, " had you 
but seen the countenance this trial of mine gave you ; it would 
have made a picture worthy of the gallery of Florence. I wanted 
to have a perfect idea of surprise, indignation, struggling friend- 
ship, and swelling honor, and I think I succeeded — But I keep 
you from your rest — Good night." — And he walked out of the 
room. 

Annesly had felt too much to be able to resign himself 
speedily to rest. He could not but think this joke of his friend 
rather a serious one ; yet he had seen him sometimes carry this 
species of wit to a very extraordinary length ; but the indelicacy 



208 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

of the present instance was not easily to be accounted for — he 
doubted, believed, was angry and pacified by turns ; the remem- 
brance of his favors arose ; they arose at first in a form that 
added to the malignity of the offence ; then the series in which 
they had been bestowed, seemed to plead on the other side. At 
last, when worn by the fighting of contrary emotions, he looked 
forward to the consequences of a rupture with Sindall ; the plea- 
sures of that society of which he was the leader, the habitual tie 
which it had got on Annesly's soul, prevailed ; for he had by this 
time lost that satisfaction which was wont to flow from himself* 
He shut his mind against the suggestions of any further suspi- 
cion, and, with that winking cowardice, which many mistake for 
resolution, was resolved to trust him for his friend, whom it 
would have hurt him to consider as an enemy. 

Sindall, on the other hand, discovered that the youth was not 
so entirely at his disposal as he had imagined him ; and that 
though he was proselyte enough to be wicked ; he must be led 
a little farther to be useful. 



CHAPTER XL 

Annesly gives farther proofs of depravity of manners. — The effect it has 
on his father, and the consequences with regard to his connexion with 
Sindall. 

To continue that train of dissipation in which their pupil had 
been initiated, was the business of Sindall and his associates. 
Though they contrived, as we have before mentioned, to escape 
the immediate notice of Mr. Jephson ; yet the eyes of others 
could not be so easily blinded ; the behaviour of Annesly began 
to be talked of for its irregularity, and the more so, for the 
change which it had undergone from that simplicity of manners 
which he had brought with him to Oxford. And some one, 
whether from regard to him, or what other motive, I know not, 
informed his kinsman of what every one but his kinsman sus- 
pected. 

Upon this information, he gave the young man a lecture in 
the usual terms of admonition ; but an effort was always painful 
to him, even where the office was more agreeable than that of 
reproof. He had recourse, therefore, to the assistance of his fel- 
low philosopher Mr. Lumley, whom he informed of the accounts 
he had received of Annesly's imprudence, and entreated to take 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 209 

the proper measures, from his influence with the young gentle- 
man, to make him sensible of the impropriety of his past con- 
duct, and to prevent its continuance for the future. 

Lumley expressed his surprise at this intelligence with unpar- 
alleled command of features ; regretted the too prevailing dis- 
sipation of youth, affected to doubt the truth of the accusation, 
but promised, at the same time, to make the proper inquiries into 
the fact, and take the most prudent method of preventing a con- 
sequence so dangerous, as that of drawing from the road of his 
duty, one whom he believed to be possessed of so many good 
qualities as Mr. Annesly. 

Whether Mr. Lumley employed his talents towards his refor- 
mation, or degeneracy, it is certain that Annesly's conduct be- 
trayed many marks of the latter. At last, in an hour of intoxi- 
cation, having engaged in a quarrel with one of his companions, 
it produced consequences so notorious, that the proctor could 
not fail to take notice of it ; and that officer of the university, 
having interposed his authority, in a manner which the humor of 
Annesly, inflammable as it then was, could not brook, he broke 
forth into some extravagances so personally offensive, that when 
the matter came to be canvassed, nothing short of expulsion was 
talked of as a punishment for the offence. 

It was then that Mr. Jephson first informed his father of those 
irregularities which his son had been guilty of. His father, in- 
deed, from the discontinuance of that gentleman's correspond- 
ence much beyond the usual time, had begun to make some 
unfavorable conjectures ; but he accounted for this neglect from 
many different causes ; and when once his ingenuity had taken 
that side of the argument, it quickly found means to convince 
him, that his kinsman's silence could not be imputed to any fault 
of his son. 

It was at the close of one of their solitary meals that this ac- 
count of Jephson's happened to reach Annesly and his daughter. 
Harriet never forgot her Billy's health, and she had now rilled 
her father's glass to the accustomed pledge, when the servant 
brought them a letter with the Oxford mark on it. Read it, my 
love, said Annesly with a smile, while he began to blame his 
suspicions at the silence of his kinsman. Harriet began reading 
accordingly, but she had scarce got through the first sentence, 
when the matter it contained rendered her voice inarticulate. 
Her father took the letter out of her hand, and after perusing it, 
he put it in his pocket, keeping up a look of composure amidst 
the anguish with which his heart was wrung. "Alas!" said 
Harriet, " what has my brother done ?" He pressed her invol- 
untarily to his bosom, and it was then that he could not restrain 
his tears — "Your brother, my love, has forgotten the purity 

18* 



210 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

which here is happiness, and I fear has ill exchanged it for what 
the world calls pleasure; but this is the first of his wanderings, 
and we will endeavor to call him back into the path he has left. 
Reach me the pen, ink, and paper, my love." — u I will go," 
said she, sobbing, " and pray for him the while." Annesly sat 
down to write.' — " My dearest boy !" — 'twas a movement grown 
mechanical to his pen — he dashed through the words, and a tear 
fell on the place ; — ye know not, ye who revel in the wantonness 
of dissipation, and scoff at the solicitude of parental affection ! 
ye know not the agony of such a tear ; else — ye are men, and 
it were beyond the depravity of nature. 

It was not till after more than one blotted scrawl, that he was 
able to write, what the man might claim, and the parent should 
approve. The letter which he at last determined to send was 
of the following tenor : 

" My Son, — With anguish I write what I trust will be read 
with contrition. I am not skilled in the language of rebuke, 
and it was once my pride to have such a son that I needed not 
to acquire it. If he has not lost the feelings by which the silent 
sorrows of a father's heart are understood, I shall have no need 
of words to recall him from that conduct by which they are 
caused. In the midst of what he will now term pleasure, he 
may have forgotten the father and the friend ; let this tear with 
which my paper is blotted, awaken his remembrance ; it is not 
the first I have shed ; but it is the first which flowed from my 
affliction mingled with disgrace. Had I been only weeping for 
my son, I should have found some melancholy comfort to sup- 
port me ; while I blush for him I have no consolation. 

U But the future is yet left to him and to me ; let the repara- 
tion be immediate, as the wrong was great, that the tongue 
which speaks of your shame may be stopt with the information 
of your amendment." 

He had just finished this letter when Harriet entered the 
room : " Will my dear papa forgive me," said she, " if I en- 
close a few lines under this cover V — u Forgive you my dear ! 
it cannot offend me." She laid her hand on his letter, and 
looked as if she would have said something more ; he pressed 
her hand in his ; a tear, which had just budded in her eye, now 
dropped to the ground. " You have not been harsh to my Billy ;" 
she blushed as she spoke : and her father kissed her cheek as it 
blushed. She enclosed the following note to her brother : — 

" Did my dearest Billy but know the sorrow which he has 
given the most indulgent of fathers, he could not less than his 
Harriet regret the occasion of it. 

" But things may be represented worse than they really are — 
I am busy at framing excuses, but I will say nothing more on 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 211 

a subject, which by this time, my brother must have thought 
enough on. 

"Alas ! that you should leave this seat of innocent delight — 
but men were made for bustle and society ; yet we might have 
been happy here together: there are in other hearts, wishes which 
they call ambition ; mine shrinks at the thought, and would shel- 
ter for ever amidst the sweets of this humble spot. Would that 
its partner where here to taste them ! the shrub- walk you mark- 
ed out through the little grove, I have been careful to trim in 
your absence — 'tis wild, melancholy, and thoughtful. It is 
there that I think most of my Billy. 

" But at this time, besides his absence, there is another cause 
to allay the pleasure which the beauties of nature should bestow. 
My dear papa is far from being well. He has no fixed com- 
plaint ; but he looks thin and pale, and his appetite is almost 
entirely gone ; yet he will not let me say that he ails. Oh! my 
brother! I dare not think more that way. Would you were here to 
comfort me ; in the meantime, remember your ever affectionate 

"Harriet." 

Annesly was just about to dispatch these letters, when he re- 
ceived one expressed in the most sympathizing terms from Sir 
Thomas Sindall. That young gentleman, after touching, in the 
tenderest manner, on the pain which a father must feel for the 
errors of his children, administered the only comfort that was 
left to administer, by representing, that young Annesly's fault 
had been exaggerated much beyond the truth, and that it was 
entirely owing to the effects of a warm temper, accidentally in- 
flamed with liquor, and provoked by some degree of insolence 
in the officer to whom the outrage had been offered. He par- 
ticularly regretted that his present dispositions towards sobriety 
had prevented him from being present at that meeting, in which 
case, he said, he was pretty certain this unlucky affair had never 
happened ; that, as it was, the only thing left for his friendship 
to do, was to amend what it had not lain within his power to 
prevent ; and he begged, as a testimony of the old gentleman's 
regard, that he might honor him so far as to commit to him the 
care of setting matters to rights with regard to the character of 
his son, which he hoped to be soon able effectually to restore. 

The earliest consolation which a man receives after any ca- 
lamity, is hallowed for ever in his regard, as a benighted travel- 
ler caresses the dog, whose barking first announced him to be 
near the habitations of men ; it was so with Annesly ; his un- 
suspecting heart overflowed with gratitude towards this friend 
of his son, and he now grew lavish of his confidence towards 
him, in proportion as he recollected having once (in his present 
opinion unjustly) denied it. 



212 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

He returned, therefore, an answer to Sir Thomas, with all 
those genuine expressions of acknowledgment, which the honest 
emotions of his soul could dictate. He accepted, as the great- 
est obligation, that concern which he took in the welfare of his 
son, and cheerfully reposed on his care the trust which his friend- 
ship desired ; and, as a proof of it, he enclosed to him the letter 
he had wrote to William, to be delivered at what time, and en- 
forced in what manner, his prudence should suggest. 



CHAPTER XII. 

The plan which Sindall forms for obliterating the stain which the character 
of his friend had suffered. 

Sir Thomas did accordingly deliver this letter of Annesly's 
to his son ; and as the penitence which the young man then felt 
for his recent offence, made the assumption of a character of 
sobriety proper, he accompanied this paternal remonstrance 
"with advices of his own, dictated alike by friendship and pru- 
dence. 

They were at this time, indeed, but little necessary ; in the 
interval between the paroxysms of pleasure and dissipation, the 
genuine feelings of his nature had time to arise : and, awaken- 
ed as they now were by the letters of his father and sister, their 
voice was irresistible. He kissed the signature of their names 
a thousand times, and, weeping on Sindall's neck, imprecated 
the wrath of Heaven on his own head, that could thus heap af- 
fliction on the age of the best of parents. 

He expressed at the same time his intention of leaving Ox- 
ford, and returning home, as an immediate instance of his desire 
of reformation. Sir Thomas, though he gave all the praise to 
this purpose which its filial piety deserved, yet doubted the pro- 
priety of putting it in execution. He said, that in the little cir- 
cles of the country, Annesly's penitence would not so imme- 
diately blot out his offence, but that the weak and the illiberal 
would shun the contagion, as it were, of his company, and that 
he would meet every day with affronts and neglects, which the 
sincerity of his repentance ill deserved, and his consciousness 
of that sincerity might not easily brook. He told him, that a 
young gentleman, a friend of his, who was just going to set out 
on a tour abroad, had but a few days before written to him, de- 
siring his recommendation of somebody, with the manners and 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 213 

education of a gentleman, to accompany him on his travels, 
and that he believed he could easily procure that station for his 
friend, which would have the double advantage of removing him 
from the obloquy to which the late accident had subjected him, 
and of improving him in every respect, by the opportunity it 
would give of observing the laws, customs, and polity of our 
neighbors on the continent. 

While the depression produced by Annesly's consciousness 
of his offences remained strong upon his mind, this proposal 
met with no very warm reception : but, in proportion as the 
comfort and encouragement of his friend prevailed, the am- 
bition which a man of his age naturally feels to see something 
of the world, began to speak in its behalf; he mentioned, how- 
ever, the consent of his father as an indispensable preliminary. 
This Sir Thomas allowed to be just ; and showing him that 
confidential letter which the old gentleman had written him, 
undertook to mention this scheme for his approbation in the an- 
swer he intended making to it. In this, too, was enclosed his 
young friend's return to the letters of his father and sister, which 
were contained in the preceding chapter, full of that contrition 
which, at the moment, he really felt, and of those good resolu- 
tions which, at the time, he sincerely formed. As to the matter 
of his going abroad, he only touched on it as a plan of Sir 
Thomas Sindall's, whose friendship had dictated the proposal, 
and whose judgment of its expediency his own words were to 
contain. 

His father received it, not without those pangs, which the 
thought of separation from a son on whom the peace of his soul 
rested must cause ; but he examined it with that impartiality 
which his wisdom suggested in every thing that concerned his 
children : " My own satisfaction," he would often say, " has for 
its object only the few years of a waning life ; the situation of 
my children — my hopes would extend to the importance of a 
much longer period." He held the balance, therefore, in an 
even hand; the arguments of Sindall had much of the specious, 
as his inducement to use them had much of the friendly. The 
young gentleman whom Billy was to accompany, had con- 
nexions of such weight in the state, that the fairest prospects 
seemed to open from their patronage ; nor could the force of 
that argument be denied, which supposed conveniency in the 
change of place to Annesly at the present, and improvement for 
the future. There were not, however, wanting some considera- 
tions of reason to side with a parent's tears against the journey; 
but Sindall had answers for them all ; and at last he wrung from 
bim his slow leave, on condition that William should return 



! 



214 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

home, for a single day, to bid the last farewell to his father and 
his Harriet. 

Meantime, the punishment of Annesly's late offence in the 
university was mitigated by the interest of Sindall, and the inter- 
cession of Mr. Jephson. Expulsion, which had before been 
insisted on, was changed into a sentence of less indignity, to 
wit, that of being publicly reprimanded by the head of the col- 
lege to which he belonged ; after submitting to which, he set 
out, accompanied by Sir Thomas, to bid adieu to his father's 
house, preparatory to his going abroad. 

His father, at meeting, touched on his late irregularities with 
that delicacy of which a good mind cannot divest itself, even 
amidst the purposed severity of reproof; and, having thus far 
sacrificed to justice and parental authority, he opened his soul 
to all that warmth of affection which his Billy had always ex- 
perienced ; nor was the mind of his son yet so perverted by his 
former course of dissipation, as to be insensible to that sympathy 
of feelings which this indulgence should produce. The tear 
which he offered to it was the sacrifice of his heart, wrung by 
the recollection of the past, and swelling with the purpose of the 
future. 

When the morning of his departure arrived, he stole softly 
into his father's chamber, meaning to take leave of him without 
being seen by his sister, whose tenderness of soul could not 
easily bear the pangs of a solemn farewell. He found his father 
on his knees. The good man. rising with that serene dignity of 
aspect which those sacred duties ever conferred on him, turned 
to his son : " You go, my boy," said he, " to a distant land, far 
from the guidance and protection of your earthly parent ; I was 
recommending you to the care of Him who is at all times pre- 
sent with you ; though I am not superstitious, yet I confess I 
feel something about me as if I should never see you more : if 
these are my last words, let them be treasured in your remem- 
brance. — Live as becomes a man and a Christian ; live as 
becomes him who is to live for ever !" 

As he spoke, his daughter entered the room. " Ah ! my 
Billy," said she, " could you have been so cruel as to go with- 
out seeing your Harriet 1 it would have broken my heart ! Oh ! 
I have much to say, and many farewells to take ; yet now, me- 
thinks, I can say nothing, and scarce dare bid you farewell!" — 
" My children," interrupted her father, " in this cabinet is a pre- 
sent I have always intended for each of you ; and this, which is 
perhaps the last time we shall meet together, I think the fittest 
to bestow them. Here, my Harriet, is a miniature of that angel 
your mother; imitate her virtues, and be happy. — Here, my 
Billy, is its counterpart, a picture of your father; whatever he is, 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 215 

heaven knows his affection to you; let that endear the memorial, 
and recommend that conduct to his son, which will make his 
father's gray hair3 go down to the grave in peace !" Tears 
were the only answer that either could give. Annesly embraced 
his son, and blessed him. Harriet blubbered on his neck ! 
Twice he offered to go, and twice the agony of his sister pulled 
him back ; at last she flung herself into the arms of her father, 
who beckoning to Sir Thomas Sindall, just then arrived to carry 
off his companion, that young gentleman, who was himself not 
a little affected with the scene, took his friend by the hand, and 
led him to the carriage that waited them. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

He reaches London, where he remains longer than was expected. — The 
effects of his stay there. 

In a few days Annesly and his friend the baronet arrived in 
the metropolis. His father had been informed, that the gentle- 
man whom he was to accompany in his travels was to meet him 
in that city, where they proposed to remain only a week or two, 
for the purpose of seeing any thing curious in town, and of set- 
tling some points of accommodation on their route through the 
countries they mean to visit ; an intelligence he confessed very 
agreeable to him, because he knew the temptations to which a 
young man is exposed by a life of idleness in London. 

But, in truth, the intention of Sir Thomas Sindall never was, 
that his present pupil (if we may so call him) should travel any 
farther. The young gentleman, for whose companion he had 
pretended to engage Annesly, was indeed to set out very soon 
after on the tour of Europe ; but he had already been provided 
with a travelling governor, who was to meet him upon his arrival 
at Calais, (for the air of England agreed so ill with this gentle- 
man's constitution, that he never crossed the channel,) and who 
had made the same journey several times before with some 
English young men of great fortunes, whom he had the honor 
of returning to their native country with the same sovereign 
contempt for it that he himself entertained. The purpose of 
Sindall was merely to remove him to a still greater distance 
from his father, and to a scene where his own plan, of entire 
conversion, should meet with every aid which the society of the 
idle and the profligate could give it. 



216 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

For some time, however, he found the disposition of Annesly 
averse to his designs. The figure of his father venerable in 
virtue, of his sister lovely in innocence, were imprinted on his 
mind ; and the variety of public places of entertainment to 
which Sir Thomas conducted him, could not immediately efface 
the impression. 

But as their novelty at first delighted, their frequency at last 
subdued him ; his mind began to accustom itself to the hurry 
of thoughtless amusement, and to feel a painful vacancy, when 
the bustle of the scene was at any time changed for solitude. 
The unrestrained warmth and energy of his temper yielded up 
his understanding to the company of fools, and his resolutions 
of reformation to the society of the dissolute, because it caught 
the fervor of the present moment, before reason could pause on 
the disposal of the next ; and, by the industry of Sindall, he 
found every day a set of friends, among whom the most en- 
gaging were always the most licentious, and joined to every 
thing which the good detest, every thing which the unthinking 
admire. I have often, indeed, been tempted to imagine that 
there is something unfortunate, if not blameable, in that harsh- 
ness and austerity which virtue too often assumes ; and have 
seen with regret, some excellent men, the authority of whose 
understanding, and the attraction of whose wit, might have re- 
tained many a deserter under the banners of goodness, lose all 
that power of service by the unbending distance which they 
keep from the little pleasantries and sweetnesses of life. This 
conduct may be safe, but there is something ungenerous and 
cowardly in it ; to keep their forces, like an over-cautious com- 
mander, in fastnesses and fortified towns, while they suffer the 
enemy to waste and ravage the champaign. Praise is indeed 
due to him who can in any way preserve his integrity; but 
surely the heart that can retain it, even while it opens to all the 
warmth of social feeling, will be an offering more acceptable in 
the eye of Heaven. 

Annesly was distant from any counsel or example, that might 
counterbalance the contagious influence of the dissolute society 
with which his time was now engrossed ; but his seduction was 
not complete, till the better principles which his soul still retain- 
ed, were made accessory to its accomplishment. 

Sindall procured a woman infamous enough for his purpose, 
the cast mistress of one of his former companions, whom he 
tutored to invent a plausible story of distress and misfortune, 
which he contrived, in a manner seemingly accidental, to have 
communicated to Annesly. His native compassion, and his 
native warmth, were interested in her sufferings and her wrongs ; 
and he applauded himself for the protection which he afforded 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 217 

her, while she was the abandoned instrument of his undoing. 
After having retained, for some time, the purity of her guardian 
and protector, in an hour of intoxication, he ventured to approach 
her on a looser footing ; and she had afterwards the address to 
make him believe, that the weakness of her gratitude had grant- 
ed to him, what to any other her virtue would have refused ; and 
during the criminal intercourse in which he lived with her, she 
continued to maintain a character of affection and tenderness, 
which might excuse the guilt of her own conduct, and account 
for the infatuation of his. 

In this fatal connexion, every remembrance of that weeping 
home which he had so lately left, with the resolutions of peni- 
tence and reformation, was erased from his mind ; or, if at 
times it intruded, it came not that gentle guest, at whose 
approach his bosom used to be thrilled with reverence and love, 
but approached in the form of some ungracious monitor, whose 
business it was to banish pleasure, and awaken remorse ; and 
therefore the next amusement, folly, or vice, was called in to 
his aid to banish and expel it. As it was sometimes necessary 
to write to his father, he fell upon an expedient, even to save 
himself the pain of thinking so long as that purpose required, on 
a subject now grown so irksome to him, and employed that wo- 
man, in whose toils he was thus shamefully entangled, to read 
the letters he received, and dictate such answers as her cunning 
could suggest, to mislead the judgment of his unsuspecting 
parent. 

All this while Sindall artfully kept so much aloof, as to pre- 
serve, even with the son, something of that character which he 
had acquired with the father. He was often absent from parties 
of remarkable irregularity, and sometimes ventured a gentle 
censure on his friend for having been led into them. But while 
he seemed to check their continuance under this cloak of pru- 
dence, he encouraged it in the report he made of the vice of 
others ; for while the scale of character for temperance, sobriety, 
and morals, sinks on one side, there is a balance of fame in the 
mouths of part of the world rising on the other. — Annesly could 
bear to be told of his spirit, his generosity, and his honor. 

19 



218 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

He feels the distresses of poverty. — He is put on a method of relieving 
them. — An account of its success. 

The manner of life which Annesly now pursued without re- 
straint, was necessarily productive of such expense as he could 
very ill afford. But the craft of his female associate was not 
much at a loss for pretences to make frequent demands on the 
generosity of his father. The same excuses which served to 
account for his stay in London, in some measure apologized for 
the largeness of the sums he drew for ; if it was necessary for 
him to remain there, expense, if not unavoidable, was at least 
difficult to be avoided ; and for the causes of his stay in that 
city, he had only to repeat the accounts which he daily received 
from Sindall, of various accidents which obliged his young friend 
to postpone his intended tour. 

Though in the country there was little opportunity of knowing 
the town irregularities of Annesly, yet there were not wanting 
surmises of it among some, of which it is likely his father might 
have heard enough to alarm him, had he not been at this time in 
such a state of health as prevented him from much society with 
his neighbors ; a slow aguish disorder, which followed those 
symptoms his daughter's letter to her brother had de&cribed, 
having confined him to his chamber almost constantly from the 
time of his son's departure. 

Annesly had still some blushes left; and when he had pushed 
his father's indulgence in the article of supply, as far as shame 
would allow him, he looked round for some other source whence 
present relief might be drawn, without daring to consider how 
the arrearages of the future should be cancelled. Sindall for 
some time answered his exigencies without reluctance ; but at 
last he informed him, as he said, with regret, that he could not, 
from particular circumstances, afford him, at that immediate 
juncture, any farther assistance than a small sum, which he 
then put into Annesly's hands, and which the very next day was 
squandered by the prodigality of his mistress. 

The next morning he rose without knowing how the wants of 
the day were to be provided for, and strolling out into one of his 
accustomed walks, gave himself up to all the pangs which the 
retrospect of the past, and the idea of the present, suggested. 
But he felt not that contrition which results from ingenuous 
sorrow for our offences ; his soul was ruled by that gloomy 



THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 219 

demon, who looks only to the anguish of their punishment, and 
accuses the hand of Providence for calamity which himself has 
occasioned. 

In this situation he was met by one of his new acquired 
friends, who was walking off the impression of last night's riot. 
The melancholy of his countenance was so easily observable, 
that it could not escape the notice of his companion, who rallied 
him on the seriousness of his aspect, in the cant phrase of those 
brutes of our species, who are professed enemies to the faculty 
of thinking. Though Annesly's pride for a while kept him silent, 
it was at last overcome by the other's importunity, and he con- 
fessed the desperation of his circumstances to be the cause of 
his present depression. His companion, whose purse, as him- 
self informed Annesly, had been flushed by the success of the 
preceding night, animated by the liberality which attends sud- 
den good fortune, freely offered him the use of twenty pieces 
till better times should enable him to repay them. " But," said 
he gayly, "it is a shame for a fellow of your parts to want money, 
when fortune has provided so many rich fools for the harvest of 
the wise and the industrious. If you'll allow me to be your con- 
ductor this evening, I will show you where, by the traffic of your 
wits, in a very short time you may convert these twenty guineas 
into fifty." " At play," replied Annesly coolly. " Ay, at play," 
returned the other, " and fair play too ; 'tis the only profession 
left for a man of spirit and honor to pursue ; to cheat as a mer- 
chant, to quibble as a lawyer, or to cant as a churchman, is con- 
fined to fellows who have no fire in their composition. Give me 
but a bold set, and a fair throw for it, and then for the life of a 
lord, or the death of a gentleman." " I have had but little ex- 
perience in the profession," said Annesly, " and should but 
throw away your money." " Never fear," replied the other ; 
" do but mark me, and I will ensure you ; I will show you our 
men ; pigeons, mere pigeons, by Jupiter!" 

It was not for a man in Annesly's situation to baulk the pro- 
mi*^ of such a golden opportunity ; they dined together, and 
afterwards repaired to a gaming-house, where Annesly's com- 
panion introduced him as a friend of his just arrived from the 
country, to several young gentlemen, who seemed to be waiting 
his arrival. — " I promised you your revenge," said he, " my 
dean, and you shall have it ; some of my friend's lady-day 
rents, too, have accompanied him to London : if you win you 
shall wear them. To business, to business." 

In 4 V> course of their play, Annesly, though but moderately 
skilleu in the game, discovered that the company to whom 
he had been introduced were in reality such bubbles as his 
companion had represented them ; after being heated by some 



220 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

small success in the beginning, they began to bet extravagantly 
against every calculation of chances ; and in an hour or two 
his associate and he had stripped them of a very considerable 
sum, of which his own share, though much the smaller, was 
upwards of three-score guineas. When they left the house, he 
offered his conductor the sum he had lent him, with a profusion 
of thanks both for the use and the improvement of it. "No, my 
boy," said he, " not now ; your note is sufficient ; I will rather 
call for it when I am at a pinch ; you see now the road to 
wealth and independence : you will meet me here to-morrow." 
He promised to meet him accordingly. 

They had been but a few minutes in the room this second 
night, when a gentleman entered, whom the company saluted 
with the appellation of Squire ; the greater part of them seemed 
to be charmed with his presence, but the countenance of An- 
nesly's companion fell at his approach : " Damn him," said he 
in a whisper to Annesly, "he's a knowing one." 

In some degree, indeed, he deserved the title, for he had at- 
tained, from pretty long experience, assisted by natural quick- 
ness of parts, a considerable knowledge in the science ; and in 
strokes of genius, at games where genius was required, was ex- 
celled by few. But after all, he was far from being successful 
in the profession ; nature intended him for something better ; 
and as he spoiled a wit, an orator, and perhaps a poet, by turning 
gambler, so he often spoiled a gambler by the ambition, which 
was not yet entirely quenched, of shining occasionally in all 
those characters. And as a companion he was too pleasing, 
and too well-pleased, to keep that cool indifference which is the 
characteristic of him who should always be possessed of himself, 
and consider every other man only as the spunge from whom 
he is to squeeze advantage. 

To the present party, however, he was unquestionably supe- 
rior ; and, of course, in a short time began to levy large contri- 
butions, not only on the more inexperienced, whom Annesly 
and his conductor had marked for their own booty, but likewise 
on these two gentlemen themselves, whose winnings of the for- 
mer evening were now fast diminishing before the superior skill 
of this new antagonist. 

But in the midst of his success, he was interrupted by the 
arrival of another gentleman, who seemed also to be a well 
known character in this temple of fortune, being saluted by the 
familiar name of Black Beard. This man possessed an un- 
moved equality both of temper and aspect ; and though in reality 
he was of no very superior abilities, yet had acquired the repu- 
tation both of depth and acuteness, from being always accus- 
tomed to think on his own interest, and pursuing with the most 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 221 

sedulous attention every object which led to it, unseduced by- 
one single spark of those feelings which the world terms weak- 
ness. 

In the article of gaming, which he had early pitched on as the 
means of advancement, he had availed himself of that industry 
and saturnine complexion, to acquire the most consummate 
knowledge of its principles, which indeed he had attained to a 
very remarkable degree of perfection. 

Opposed to this man, even the skill of the hitherto-successful 
squire was unavailing ; and consequently, he not only stripped 
that gentleman of the gains he had made, but gleaned whatever 
he had left in the purses of the inferior members of the party, 
amongst whom Annesly and his associates were reduced to 
their last guinea. 

This they agreed to spend together at a tavern in the neigh- 
borhood, where they cursed fortune, their spoiler, and them- 
selves, in all the bitterness of rage and disappointment. An- 
nesly did not seek to account for their losses otherwise than in 
the real way, to wit, from the superior skill of their adversary ; 
but his companion, who often boasted of his own, threw out 
some insinuations of foul play and connivance. 

" If I thought that," said Annesly, laying his hand on his 
sword, while his cheeks burnt with indignation — " Poh !" re- 
plied the other, " 'tis in vain to be angry ; here's damnation to 
him in a bumper." 

The other did not fail his pledge ; and by a liberal application 
to the bottle, they so far overcame their losses, that Annesly 
reeled home, singing a catch, forgetful of the past, and regard- 
less of to-morrow. 



CHAPTER XV. 

Another attempt to retrieve his circumstances, the consequences of which aro 
still more fatal, 

Though the arrival of to-morrow might be overlooked, it 
could not be prevented. It rose on Annesly, one of the most 
wretched of mankind. Poverty, embittered by disgrace, was now 
approaching him, who knew of no friend to ward off the blow, 
and had no consolation in himself by which it might be lighten- 
ed : if any thing could add to his present distress, it was in- 
Creased by the absence of Sindall, who was then in the country, 

19* 



222 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

and the upbraidings of his female companion, who now exclaimed 
against the folly which herself had caused, and the extravagance 
herself had participated. 

About mid-day, his last night's fellow-sufferer paid him a visit; 
their mutual chagrin at meeting, from the recollection of misfor- 
tune which it produced, was evident in their countenances ; but 
it was not a little increased, when the other told Annesly, he 
came to put him in mind of the sum he had advanced him two 
days before, for which he had now very particular occasion. 
Annesly answered, that he had frankly told him the state of his 
finances at the time of the loan, and accepted it on no condition 
of speedy payment ; that he had, that same evening, offered to 
repay him when it was in his power, and that he could not but 
think the demand ungentlemanlike, at a time when he must 
know his utter inability to comply with it. 

"Ungentlemanlike!" said the other; "I don't understand 
what you mean, Sir, by such a phrase : will you pay me my 
money or not ?" — " I cannot." — " Then, sir, you must expect 
me to employ some gentleman for the recovery of it, who will 
speak to you, perhaps, in a more ungentlemanlike style than I 
do." And, so saying, he flung out of the room. 

" Infamous wretch !" exclaimed Annesly, and walked about 
with a hurried step, gnawing his lips and muttering curses on 
him and on himself. — There was another gentleman wanted to 
see him below stairs. — 'Twas a mercer, who came to demand 
payment of some fineries his lady, as he termed her, had pur- 
chased ; he was with difficulty, dismissed. — In a quarter of an 
hour there was another call — 'Twas a dun of a tailor for clothes 
to himself — he would take no excuse — " Come," said Annesly, 
with a look of desperation, " to-morrow morning, and I will pay 
you." 

But how? — he stared wildly on the ground, then knocked his 
head against the wall, and acted all the extravagances of a mad- 
man. At last, with a more settled horror in his eye, he put on 
his sword, and without knowing whither he should go, sallied 
into the street. 

He happened to meet in his way some of those boon com- 
panions, with whom his nights of jollity had been spent ; but 
their terms of salutation were so cold and forbidding, as obvi- 
ously to show that the account of his circumstances had already 
reached them ; and, with them, he who had every thing to ask, 
and nothing to bestow, could possess no quality attractive of 
regard. After sauntering from street to street, and from square 
to square, he found himself, towards the close of the day, within 
a few paces of that very gaming-house where he had been so 
unfortunate the evening before. A sort of malicious curiosity, 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 223 

and some hope of he knew not what, tempted him to re-enter it. 
He found much the same company he had seen the preceding 
night, with the exception, however, of his former associate, and 
one or two of the younger members of their party, whom the 
same cause prevented from attending. 

Strolling into another room, he found an inferior set of game- 
sters, whose stakes were lower, though their vociferation was 
infinitely more loud. In the far corner sat a man, who preserved 
a composure of countenance, undisturbed by the clamor and 
confusion that surrounded him. After a little observation, An- 
nesly discovered that he was a money lender, who advanced 
certain sums at a very exorbitant premium to the persons en-» 
gaged in the play. Some of those he saw, who could offer no 
other security satisfying to this usurer, procure a few guineas 
from him, on pawning a watch, ring, or some other appendage 
of former finery. Of such he had before divested himself for 
urgent demands, and had nothing superfluous about him but his 
sword, which he had kept the latest, and which he now deposited 
in the hands of the old gentleman in the corner, who furnished 
him with a couple of pieces upon it, that with them he might 
once more try his fortune at the table. 

The success exceeded his expectation ; it was so rapid, that 
in less than an hour he had increased his two guineas to forty, 
with which he determined to retire contented ; but when he 
would have redeemed his sword, he was informed that the 
keeper of it was just gone into the other room, where, as he en-> 
tered to demand it, he unfortunately overheard the same gentle-* 
man who had gained his money the former night, offering a bet 
to the amount of the sum Annesly then possessed, on a cast 
where he imagined the chance to be much against it. Stimu- 
lated with the desire of doubling his gain, and the sudden pro- 
vocation, as it were, of the offer, he accepted it ; and, in one 
moment, lost all the fruits of his former good fortune. The 
transport of his passion could not express itself in words : but 
taking up one of the dice, with the seeming coolness of exquisite 
anguish, he fairly bit it in two, and casting a look of frenzy on 
his sword, which he was now unable to ransom, he rushed out 
of the house, uncovered as he was, his hat hanging on a peg in 
the other apartment. 

The agitation of his mind was such as denied all attention to 
common things ; and, instead of taking the direct road to his 
lodgings, he wandered off the street into an obscure alley, where 
he had not advanced far, till he was accosted by a fellow, who, 
in a very peremptory tone, desired him to deliver his money, or 
he would instantly blow out his brains, presenting a pistol at less 
than half a yard's distance. — " I can give vou nothing," sai(J 



224 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

Annesly, " because I have nothing to give." — "Damn you," 
returned the other, " do you think I'll be fobbed off so ? Your 
money and be damn'd to you, or I'll send you to hell in a twink- 
ling" — advancing his pistol at the same time, within a hand's 
breadth of his face. Annesly, at that instant, struck up the 
muzzle with his arm, and laying hold of the barrel, by a sudden 
wrench forced the weapon out of the hands of the villain, who, 
not choosing to risk any farther combat, made the best of his 
way down the alley, and left Annesly master of his arms. He 
stood for a moment entranced in thought. — " Whoever thou 
art," said he, " I thank thee ; by Heaven, thou instructest and 
armest me ; this may provide for to-morrow, or make its provi- 
sion unnecessary." He now returned with a hurried pace to the 
mouth of the alley, where, in the shade of a jutting wall, he 
could mark, unperceived, the objects on the street. He had 
stood there but a few seconds, and began already to waver in 
his purpose, when he saw come out of the gaming-house, which 
he had left, the very man who had plundered him of his all. 
The richness of the prize, with immediate revenge, awakened 
together in his mind ; and the suspicion of foul play, which his 
companion had hinted the night before, gave him a sanction of 
something like justice ; he waited till the chair in which the 
gamester was conveyed, came opposite to the place where he 
stood ; then covering his face with one hand, and assuming a 
tone different from his natural, he pulled out his pistol, and 
commanded the leading chairman to stop. This effected, he 
went up to the chair, and the gentleman within having let down 
one of the glasses to know the reason of its stop, the stopper 
clapped the pistol to his breast, and threatened him with instant 
death if he did not deliver his money. The other, after some 
little hesitation, during which Annesly repeated his threats with 
the most horrible oaths, drew a purse of gold from his pocket, 
which Annesly snatched out of his hand, and running down 
the alley, made his escape at the other end ; and, after turning 
through several streets in different directions, so as to elude 
pursuit, arrived safely at home with the booty he had taken. 

Meantime, the gamester returned to the house he had just 
quitted, with the account of his disaster. The whole fraternity, 
who could make no allowance for a robber of this sort, were 
alarmed at the accident ; every one was busied in inquiry, and 
a thousand questions were asked about his appearance, his be- 
haviour, and the route he had taken. The chairmen, who had 
been somewhat more possessed of themselves, at the time of 
the robbery, than their master, had remarked the circumstance 
of the robber's wanting his hat : this was no sooner mentioned, 
than a buz ran through the company, that the young gentleman, 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 225 

who had gone off a little while before, had been observed to be 
•uncovered when he left the house ; and upon search made, his 
hat was actually found with his name marked on the inside. 
This was a ground of suspicion too strong to be overlooked; 
messengers were dispatched in quest of the friend who had 
introduced him there the preceding night ; upon his being 
found, and acquainting them of Annesly's lodgings, proper 
warrants were obtained for a search. 

When that unfortunate young man arrived at home, he was 
met on the stairs by the lady we have formerly mentioned, who, 
in terms of the bitterest reproach, interrupted with tears, in- 
veighed against the cruelty of his neglect, in thus leaving her to 
pine alone, without even the common comforts of a miserable 
life. Her censure, indeed, was the more violent, as there was 
little reason for its violence ; for she had that moment dismissed 
at a back door, a gallant who was more attentive than Annesly. 
He, who could very well allow the grounds of her complaint, 
only pleaded necessity for his excuse ; he could but mutter this 
apology in imperfect words, for the perturbation of his mind 
almost deprived him of the powers of speech. Upon her taking 
notice of this, with much seeming concern for his health, he 
beckoned her into a chamber, and dashing the purse on the floor, 
pointed to it with a look of horror, as an answer to her up- 
braidings. 

" What have you done for this V 9 said she, taking it up : He 
threw himself into a chair, without answering a word. 

At that moment, the officers of justice, who had lost no time 
in prosecuting their information, entered the house ; and some 
of them, accompanied by an attorney, employed by the gentle- 
man who had been robbed, walked softly up stairs to the room 
where Annesly was, and bursting into it before he could prepare 
for any defence, laid hold of him in rather a violent manner, 
which the lawyer observing, desired them to use the gentleman 
civilly, till he should ask him a few questions. " I will answer 
none," said Annesly ; " do your duty." " Then, Sir," replied 
the other, " you must attend us to those who can question you 
with better authority ; and I must make bold to secure this lady, 
till she answer some questions also." The lady saved him the 
trouble ; for being now pretty well satisfied, that her hero was at 
the end of his career, she thought it most prudent to break off a 
connexion where nothing was to be gained, and make a merit of 
contributing her endeavors to bring the offender to justice. She 
called, therefore, this leader of the party into another room, and 
being informed by him that the young gentleman was suspected 
of having committed a robbery scarce an hour before, she pulled 
out the purse which she had just received from him, and asked 



226 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

the lawyer, if it was that which had been taken from his client ? 
" Ay, that it is, I'll be sworn," said he ; " and here (pouring out 
its contents) is the ring he mentioned at the bottom." — " But," 
said she, pausing a little, " it will prove the thing as well without 
the guineas." " I protest," returned the lawyer, " thou art a 
girl of excellent invention — Hum — here are fourscore ; one 
half of them might have been spent — or dropt out by the way, 
or — any thing may be supposed ; and so we shall have twenty 
a-piece. — Some folks, to be sure, would take more, but I love 
conscience in these matters." 

Having finished this transaction, in such a manner as might 
give no offence to the conscience of this honest pettifogger, they 
returned to the prisoner, who contented himself with darting a 
look of indignation at his female betrayer ; and, after being some 
time in the custody of the lawyer and his assistants, he was 
carried, in the morning, along with her, before a magistrate. 
The several circumstances I have related being sworn to, 
Annesly was committed to Newgate, and the gamester bound 
over to prosecute him at the next sessions, which were not then 
very distant. 



CHAPTER XYI. 

The miseries of him whose punishment is inflicted by conscience. 

Though Annesly must have suffered much during the agita- 
tion of these proceedings, yet that was little to what he felt, 
when left to reflection, in the solitude of his new abode. Let 
the virtuous remember, amidst their affliction, that though the 
heart of a good man may bleed even to death, it will never feel 
a torment equal to the rendings of remorse. 

For sometime the whirling of his brain gave him no leisure 
to exercise any faculty that could be termed thinking ; when 
that sort of delirium subsided, it left him only to make room for 
more exquisite though less turbulent anguish. 

After he had visited every corner of resource, and found them 
all dark and comfortless, he started at last from that posture of 
despair in which he sat, and turning the glare of his eye intently 
upwards : — 

" Take back," said he, " thou Power that gavest me being ! 
take back that life which thou didst breathe into me for the best 
of purposes, but which I have profaned by actions equally mis- 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 227 

chievous to thy government, and ignominious to myself. The 
passions which thou didst implant in me, that reason which 
should balance them is unable to withstand : from one only I 
received useful admonition ; the shame that could not prevent, 
now punishes my crimes. Her voice for once I will obey; 
and leave a state, in which if I remain, I continue a blot to 
nature, and an enemy to man." 

He drew a penknife, now his only weapon, from its sheath — 
he bared his bosom for the horrid deed — when the picture of 
his father, which the good man had bestowed on him at parting, 
and he had worn ever since in his bosom, struck his eye — (it 
was drawn in the mildness of holy meditation, with the hands 
folded together, and the eyes lifted to heaven), " Merciful God!" 
said Annesly — he would have uttered a prayer ; but his soul 
was wound up to a pitch that could but one way be let down — 
he flung himself on the ground, and burst into an agony of tears. 

The door of the apartment opening, discovered the jailer, 
followed by Sir Thomas Sindall — " My friend in this place !" 
said he to Annesly, — who covered his face with his hands, and 
replied only by a groan. 

Sindall made signs to the keeper of the prison to leave them: 
— " Come," said he, " my dear Annesly, be not so entirely over- 
come ; I flatter myself, you know my friendship too well to 
suppose that it will desert you even here. I may, perhaps, have 
opportunities of comforting you in many ways ; at least I shall 
feel and pity your distresses." — " Leave me," answered the 
other, " leave me ; I deserve no pity, and methinks there is a 
pride in refusing it." — "You must not say so ; my love has 
much to plead for you ; nor are you without excuse even to the 
world." — " Oh ! Sindall," said he, " I am without excuse to 
myself! when I look back to that peace of mind, to that happi- 
ness I have squandered ! — I will not curse, but — Oh ! Fool, 
fool, fool !" — " I would not," said Sir Thomas, " increase that 
anguish which you feel, were I not obliged to mention the name 
of your father." — " My father," cried Annesly ; " Oh, hide me 
from my father !" — " Alas !" replied Sindall, " he must hear 
of your disaster from other hands ; and it were cruel not to 
acquaint him of it in a way that should wound him the least." — 
Annesly gazed with a look of entrancement on his picture ; 
" Great God !" said he, " for what hast thou reserved me ? 
Sindall, do what thou wilt — think not of such a wretch as I am; 
but mitigate, if thou canst, the sorrows of a father, the purity of 
whose bosom must bleed for the vices of mine." — " Fear not," 
returned Sir Thomas ; " I hope all will be better than you 
imagine. It grows late, and I must leave you now ; but pro* 
mise me to be more composed for the future. I will see you 



228 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

again early to-morrow ; nor will I let a moment escape that 
can be improved to your service." — " I must think," said An- 
nesly, " and therefore I must feel ; but I will often remember 
your friendship, and my gratitude shall be some little merit left 
in me to look upon without blushing." 

Sindall bade him farewell, and retired ; and at that instant he 
was less a villain than he used to be. The state of horror to 
which he saw this young man reduced, was beyond the limits 
of his scheme : and he began to look upon the victim of his 
designs with that pity which depravity can feel, and that remorse 
which it cannot overcome. 



CHAPTER XVIL 

His father is acquainted with Annesly's situation. — His behaviour in 
consequence of it. 

That letter to old Annesly, which Sindall had undertaken to 
write, he found a more difficult task than at first he imagined. 
The solicitude of his friendship might have been easily ex- 
pressed on more common occasions, and hypocrisy to him was 
usually no unpleasing garb ; but at this crisis of Annesly's 
fate, there were feelings he could not suppress ; and he blush- 
ed to himself, amidst, the protestations of concern and regard, 
with which this account of his misfortune (as he termed it) was 
accompanied. 

Palliated, as it was, with all the art of Sir Thomas, it may be 
easily conceived what effect it must have on the mind of a fa- 
ther ; a father at this time laboring under the pressure of disease, 
and confined to a sick bed, whose intervals of thought w r ere now 
to be pointed to the misery, the disgrace, perhaps the disgraceful 
death of a darling child. His Harriet, after the first shock which 
the dreadful tidings had given her, sat by him, stifling the terrors 
of her gentle soul, and speaking comfort when her tears would 
let her. 

His grief was aggravated, from the consideration of being at 
present unable to attend a son, whose calamities, though of his 
own procuring, called so loudly for support and assistance. 

44 Unworthy as your brother is, my Harriet," said he, " he is 
my son and your brother still ; and must he languish amid the 
horrors of a prison, without a parent or a sister to lessen them X 
The prayers which I can put up from this sick bed are all the 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 229 

aid I can minister to him ; but your presence might soothe his 
anguish, and alleviate his sufferings. With regard to this life, 
perhaps — Do not weep, my love — But you might lead him to a 
reconciliation with that Being whose sentence governs eternity! 
Would it frighten my Harriet to visit a dungeon?' — " Could I 
leave my dearest father," said she, " no place could frighten me 

where my poor Billy is" " Then you shall go, my child, 

and I shall be the better for thinking that you are with him. 
Tell him, though he has wrung my heart, it has not forgotten 
him. That he should have forgotten me is little ; let him but 
now remember, that there is another Father whose pardon is 
more momentous." 

Harriet having therefore entrusted her father to the friend- 
ship of Mrs. Wistanly, set out, accompanied by a niece of that 
gentlewoman's, who had been on a visit to her aunt, for the 
metropolis, where she arrived a few days before that which was 
appointed for the trial of her unhappy brother. 

Though it was late in the evening when they reached London, 
yet Harriet's impatience would not suffer her to sleep till she 
had seen the poor prisoner; and notwithstanding the remon- 
strances of her companion, to whom her aunt had recommended 
the tenderest concern about her young friend, she called a hack- 
ney coach immediately, to convey her to the place in which 
Annesly was confined ; and her fellow-traveller, when her dis- 
suasions to going had failed, very obligingly offered to accom- 
pany her. 

They were conducted, by the turnkey, through a gloomy pas- 
sage, to the wretched apartment which Annesly occupied ; they 
found him sitting at a little table, on which he leaned, with his 
hands covering his face. When they entered he did not change 
his posture ; but on the turnkey's speaking, for his sister was 
unable to speak, he started up, and exhibited a countenance 
pale and haggard, his eyes bloodshot, and his hair dishevelled. 
On discovering his sister, a blush crossed his cheek, and the 
horror of his aspect was lost in something milder and more 
piteous — " Oh ! my Billy !" she cried, and sprung forward to 
embrace him : " This is too much," said he ; " leave and forget 
a wretch unworthy the name of thy brother." — " Would my 
Billy kill me quite 1 this frightful place has almost killed me 
already ! Alas ! Billy, my dearest father !" — " Oh ! Harriet, 
that name, that name ! speak not of my father !" — " Ah !" said 
she, " if you knew his goodness ; he sent me to comfort and 
support my brother ; he sent me from himself, stretched on a 
sick bed, where his Harriet should have tended him." — " Oh ! 
cursed, cursed !" — " Nay, do not curse, my Billy, he sends you 
none ; his prayers, his blessings, rise for you to heaven ; his 

20 



230 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

forgiveness he bade me convey you, and tell you to seek that 
of the Father of all goodness!" — His sister's hands were clasped 
in his ; he lifted both together : " If thou canst hear me," said 
he — " I dare not pray for myself; but spare a father whom my 
crimes have made miserable ; let me abide the wrath I have 
deserved, but weigh not down his age for my offences ; punish 
it not with the remembrance of me !" He fell on his sister's 
neck, and they mingled their tears ; nor could the young lady 
who attended Harriet, or the jailer himself, forbear accompany- 
ing them ; this last, however, recovered himself rather sooner 
than the other, and reminded them it was late, and that he must 
lock up for the night. — "Good night then, my Harriet," said An- 
nesly. " And must we separate 1" answered his sister ; " could 
I not sit and support that distracted head, and close those hag- 
gard eyes ?" — " Let me entreat you," returned her brother, "to 
leave me and compose yourself after the fatigues of your jour- 
ney, and the perturbation of your mind ; I feel myself comforted 
and refreshed by the sight of my Harriet. I will try to sleep 
myself, which I have not done those four gloomy nights, un- 
less, perhaps, for a few moments, when the torture of my dreams 
made waking a deliverance. Good night, my dearest Harriet." 
She could not say good night, but she wept it. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

His sister pays him another visit. — A description of what passed in the prison. 

It was late before Harriet could think even of going to bed, 
and later before her mind could be quieted enough to allow her 
any sleep. But nature was at last worn out ; and the fatigue 
of her journey, together with the conflict of her soul in the visit 
she had just made, had so exhausted her, that it was towards 
noon next day before she awaked. After having chid herself 
for her neglect, she hurried away to her much-loved brother, 
whom she found attended by that baronet, to whose good offices 
I have had so frequent occasion to show him indebted in the 
course of my story. 

At sight of him, her cheek was flushed with the mingled glow 
of shame for her brother, and gratitude towards his benefactor. 
He advanced to salute her ; when, with the tears starting into 
her eyes, she fell on her knees before him, and poured forth a 
prayer of blessings on his head. There could not, perhaps, be 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 231 

a figure more lovely or more striking than that which she then 
exhibited. The lustre ot' her eyes, heightened by those tears 
with which the overflowing of her heart supplied them ; the 
glow of her complexion, animated with the suffusion of tender- 
ness and gratitude ; these, joined to the easy negligence of her 
dark brown locks, that waved in ringlets on her panting bosom, 
made altogether such an assemblage as beauty is a word too 
weak for. So forcibly, indeed, was Sindall struck with it, that 
some little time passed before he thought of lifting her from the 
ground ; he looked his very soul at every glance ; but it was a 
soul unworthy of the object on which he gazed, brutal, unfeel- 
ing, and inhuman ; he considered her, at that moment, as already 
within the reach of his machinations, and feasted the grossness 
of his fancy with the anticipation of her undoing. 

And here let me pause a little, to consider that account of 
pleasure which the votaries of pleasure have frequently stated. 
I allow for all the delight which Sindall could experience for 
the present, or hope to experience in the future. I consider it 
abstracted from its consequences, and I will venture to affirm, 
that there is a truer, a more exquisite voluptuary than he — Had 
Virtue been now looking on the figure of beauty and of inno- 
cence I have attempted to draw — I see the purpose of benevo- 
lence beaming in his eye ! Its throb is swelling in his heart ! 
He clasps her to his bosom ; — he kisses the falling drops from 
her cheek : — he weeps with her : — and the luxury of his tears 
baffles description. 

But whatever were Sir Thomas's sensations at the sight of 
Harriet, they were interrupted by the jailer, who now entered 
the room, and informed him that a gentleman without was 
earnest to speak with him. "Who can it be?" said Sir Thomas 
somewhat peevishly. "If. I am not mistaken," replied the jailer, 
" it is a gentleman of the name of Camplin, a lawyer, whom I 
have seen here with some of the prisoners before." — " This is 
he of whom I talked to you, my dear Annesly," said the baronet; 
"let me introduce him to you." — " I have taken my resolution," 
returned Annesly, " and shall have no need of lawyers for my 
defence." — " It must not be," rejoined the other ; and going 
out of the room, he presently returned with Mr. Camplin. All 
this while, Harriet's looks betrayed the strongest symptoms of 
terror and perplexity ; and when the stranger appeared, she 
drew nearer and nearer to her brother, with an involuntary sort 
of motion, till she had twined his arm into hers, and placed 
herself between him and Camplin. This last observed her 
fears, for indeed she bent her eyes most fixedly upon him ; and 
making her a bow, " Be not afraid, Miss," said he, "here are 
none but friends. I learn, Sir, that your day is now very near, 



232 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

and that it is time to be thinking of the business of it." "Good 
Heavens !" cried Harriet, " what day V " Make yourself easy, 
Madam," continued Camplin ; " being the first trip, I hope he 
may fall soft for this time ; I believe nobody doubts my abili- 
ties ; I have saved many a brave man from the gallows, whose 
case was more desperate than I take this young gentleman's to 
be." — The color, which had been varying on her cheek during 
this speech, now left it for a dead pale ; and turning her languid 
eyes upon her brother, she fell motionless into his arms. He 
supported her to a chair that stood near him, and darting an 
indignant look at the lawyer, begged of the jailer to procure 
her some immediate assistance. Sindall, who was kneeling 
on the other side of her, ordered Camplin, who was advancing 
to make offer of his services too, to be gone, and send them 
the first surgeon he could find. A surgeon, indeed, had been 
already procured, who officiated in the prison, for the best of 
all reasons, because he was not at liberty to leave it. The 
jailer now made his appearance, with a bottle of wine in one 
hand, and some water in the other ; followed by a tall, meagre, 
ragged figure, who, striding up to Harriet, applied a small vial 
of volatile salt to her nose, and chafing her temples, soon 
brought her to sense and life again. Annesly, pressing her to 
his bosom, begged her to recollect herself, and forget her fears. 
" Pardon this weakness, my dear Billy," said she, " I will try 
to overcome it : is that horrid man gone ? who is this gentle- 
man V 9 " I have the honor to be a doctor of physic, madam," 
said he, clapping at the same time his greasy fingers to her 
pulse : " here is a fulness that calls for venesection." So with- 
out loss of time he pulled out a case of lancets covered with 
rust, and spotted with the blood of former patients. " Oh ! 
for Heaven's sake, no bleeding," cried Harriet, " indeed there 
is no occasion for it." " How, no occasion !" exclaimed the 
other ; " I have heard, indeed, some ignorants condemn phle- 
botomy in such cases ; but it is my practice, and I am very 
well able to defend it. It will be allowed, that in plethoric 
habits" — " Spare your demonstration," interrupted Annesly, 
" and think of your patient." " You shall not blood me," said 
she, " you shall not indeed, Sir !" " Nay, Madam," said he, " as 
you please ; you are to know that the operation itself is no part 
of my profession ; it is only propter necessitate?)!, for want of 
chirurgical practitioners, that I sometimes condescend to it in 
this place." Sir Thomas gave him a hint to leave them, and 
at the same time slipped a guinea into his hand. He immedi- 
ately retired, looking at the unusual appearance of the gold with 
a joy that made him forget the obstinacy of his patient, and her 
rejection of his assistance. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 233 

Annesly, assisted by his friend, used every possible argu- 
ment to comfort and support his sister. His concern for her 
had indeed banished for a while the consideration of his own 
state ; and when he came to think of that solemn day, on which 
the trial for his life was appointed, his concern was more inter- 
ested for its effect on his Harriet, than for that it should have 
on himself. 

After they had passed great part of the day together, Sir 
Thomas observed, that Miss Annesly's present lodgings (in the 
house of her fellow-traveller's father) were so distant, as to oc- 
casion much inconvenience to her in her visits to her brother ; 
and very kindly made offer of endeavoring to procure her others 
but a few streets off, under the roof of a gentlewoman, he said, 
an officer's widow of his acquaintance, who, if she had any apart- 
ment unoccupied at the time, he knew would be as attentive to 
Miss Annesly as if she were a daughter of her own. 

This proposal was readily accepted ; and Sir Thomas having 
gone upon the inquiry, returned in the evening with an account of 
having succeeded in procuring the lodgings ; that he had taken 
the liberty to call and fetch Miss Annesly's baggage from those 
she had formerly occupied, and that every thing was ready at 
Mrs. Eldridge's (that was the widow's name) for her reception. 
After supper he conducted her thither accordingly. 

As he was going out, Annesly whispered him to return for a 
few minutes after he had set down his sister, as he had some- 
thing particular to communicate to him. When he came back, 
" You have heard, I fancy, Sir Thomas," said he, "that the next 
day but one is the day of my trial. As to myself, I wait it with 
resignation, and shall not give any trouble to my country by a 
false defence ; but I tremble for my sister's knowing it. Could 
we not contrive some method of keeping her in ignorance of 
its appointment till it be over, and then prepare her for the 
event, without subjecting her to the tortures of anxiety and sus- 
pense?" Sindall agreed in the propriety of the latter part of this 
scheme, and they resolved to keep his sister that day at home, 
on pretence of a meeting in the prison between the lawyers of 
Annesly, and those of his prosecutor. But he warmly insisted 
that Annesly should accept the services of Camplin towards 
conducting the cause on his part. " Endeavor not to persuade 
me, my friend," said Annesly ; " for I now rest satisfied with 
my determination. I thank Heaven, which has enabled me to 
rely on its goodness, and meet my fate with the full possession 
of myself. I will not disdain the mercy which my country may 
think I merit ; but I will not entangle myself in chicane and 
insincerity to avoid her justice." 

20* 



234 THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

The fate of Annesly determined. — Sindall's friendship, and the gratitude of 

Harriet. 

Nothing remarkable happened till that day when the fate of 
Annesly was to be determined by the laws of his country. The 
project formed by Sindall and himself, for keeping his sister 
ignorant of its importance, succeeded to their wish ; she spent 
it at home, comforting herself with the hope, that the meeting 
she understood to be held on it, might turn out advantageously 
for her brother, and soothed by the kindness of her landlady, 
who had indeed fully answered Sir Thomas's expectations in the 
attention she had shown her. 

Meanwhile her unfortunate brother was brought to the bar, in- 
dicted for the robbery committed on the gamester. When he 
was asked, in the customary manner, to plead, he stood up, and, 
addressing himself to the judge — 

" I am now, my lord," said he, " in a situation of all others 
the most solemn. I stand in the presence of God and my 
country, and I am called to confess or deny that crime for 
which I have incurred the judgment of both. If I have offend- 
ed, my lord, I am not yet an obdurate offender ; I fly not to the 
subterfuge of villany, though I have fallen from the dignity of 
innocence ; and I will not screen a life which my crimes have 
disgraced, by a coward lie to prevent their detection. I plead 
guilty, my lord, and await the judgment of that law, which, though 
I have violated, I have not forgotten to revere. ,, 

TV hen he ended, a confused murmur ran through the Court, 
and for some time stopped the judge in his reply. Silence ob- 
tained, that upright magistrate, worthy the tribunal of England, 
spoke to this effect : 

" I am sincerely sorry, young gentleman, to see one of your 
figure at this bar, charged with a crime for which the public 
safety has been obliged to award an exemplary punishment. 
Much as I admire the heroism of your confession, I will not 
suffer advantage to be taken of it to your prejudice ; reflect on 
the consequences of a plea of guilt, which takes from you all 
opportunity of a legal defence, and speak again, as your own 
discretion, or your friends, may best advise you." " I humbly 
thank your lordship," said Annesly, " for the candor and indul- 
gence which you show me ; but I have spoken the truth, and 
will not allow myself to think of retracting it." " I am here," 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 235 

returned his lordship, " as the dispenser of justice, and I have 
nothing but justice to give ; the province of mercy is in other 
hands ; if, upon inquiry, the case is circumstanced as I wish it 
to be, my recommendation shall not be wanting to enforce an 
application there." Annesly was then convicted of the robbery, 
and the sentence of the law passed upon him. 

But the judge before whom he was tried was not unmindful 
of his promise ; and having satisfied himself, that though guilty 
in this instance, he was not habitually flagitious, he assisted so 
warmly the applications which, through the interest of Sindall, 
(for Sindall was in this sincere,) were made in his behalf, that a 
pardon was obtained for him, on the condition of his suffering 
transportation for the term of fourteen years. 

This alleviation of his punishment was procured, before his 
sister was suffered to know that his trial had ever come on, or 
what had been its event. When his fate was by this means de- 
termined, Sindall undertook to instruct the lady in whose house 
he had placed her, that Miss Annesly should be acquainted with 
the circumstances of it in such a manner as might least discom- 
pose that delicacy and tenderness of which her mind was so 
susceptible. The event answered his expectation ; that good 
woman seemed possessed of as much address as humanity ; 
and Harriet, by the intervention of both, was led to the knowl- 
edge of her brother's situation with so much prudence, that she 
bore it at first with resignation, and afterwards looked upon it 
with thankfulness. 

After that acknowledgment to Providence, which she had 
been early instructed never to forget, there was an inferior 
agent in this affair, to whom her warmest gratitude was devoted. 
Besides that herself had the highest opinion of Sindall's good 
offices, her obliging landlady had taken every opportunity, since 
their acquaintance began, to sound forth his praises in the most 
extravagant strain; and, on the present occasion, her encomiums 
were loud, in proportion as Harriet's happiness was concerned 
in the event. 

Sir Thomas, therefore, began to be considered by the young 
lady as the worthiest of friends ; his own language bore the 
strongest expressions of friendship — of friendship, and no more ; 
but the widow would often insinuate that he felt more than he 
expressed ; and when Harriet's spirits could bear a little rail- 
lery, her landlady did not want for jokes on the subject. 

These suggestions of another have a greater effect than is 
often imagined ; they are heard with an ease which does not 
alarm, and the mind habituates itself to take up such a credit on 
their truth as it would be sorry to lose, though it is not at the 
trouble of examining. Harriet did not seriously think of Sindall 



236 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

as of one that was her lover ; but she began to make such 
arrangements, as not to be surprised if he should. 

. One morning, when Sir Thomas had called to conduct her on 
a visit to her brother, Mrs. Eldridge rallied him at breakfast on 
his being still a bachelor. " What is your opinion, Miss An- 
nesly," said she ; u is it not a shame for one of Sir Thomas's 
fortune not to make some worthy woman happy in the participa- 
tion of it l" Sindall submitted to be judged by so fair an arbi- 
tress ; he said, "the manners of the court ladies, whose example 
had stretched unhappily too far, were such as made it a sort of 
venture to be married ;" he then paused for a moment, sighed, 
and, fixing his eyes upon Harriet, drew such a picture of the 
woman whom he would choose for a wife, that she must have 
had some sillier qualities than mere modesty about her, not to 
have made some guess at his meaning. 

In short, though she was as little wanting in delicacy as most 
women, she began to feel a certain interest in the good opinion 
of Sindall, and to draw some conclusions from his deportment, 
which, for the sake of my fair readers, I would have them 
remember, are better to be slowly understood than hastily 
indulged. 



CHAPTER XX. 

An accident, which may possibly be imagined somewhat more than 
accidental. 

Though the thoughts of Annesly's future situation could not 
but be distressful to his sister and him, yet the deliverance from 
greater evils, which they had experienced, served to enlighten 
the prospect of those they feared. His father, whose consolation 
always attended the calamity he could neither prevent nor cure, 
exhorted his son (in an answer to the account his sister and he 
had transmitted him of the events contained in the preceding 
chapter) to have a proper sense of the mercy of his God and 
his king, and to bear what was a mitigation of his punishment 
with a fortitude and resignation becoming the subject of both. 
The same letter informed his children, that though he was not 
well enough recovered to be able to travel, yet he was gaining 
ground on his distemper, and hoped, as the season advanced, to 
get the better of it altogether. He sent that blessing to his son, 
which he was prevented from bestowing personally, with a credit 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 237 

for any sum which he might have occasion for against his ap- 
proaching departure. 

His children received additional comfort from the good ac- 
counts of their father which this letter contained ; and even in 
Annesly's prison, there were some intervals in which they for- 
got the Pears of parting, and indulged themselves in temporary 
happiness. 

It was during one of these, that Sindall observed to Harriet 
how little she possesed the curiosity her sex was charged with, 
who had never once thought of seeing any thing in London that 
strangers were most solicitous to see ; and proposed that very 
night to conduct her to the playhouse, where the royal family 
were to be present, at the representation of a new comedy. 

Harriet turned a melancholy look towards her brother, and 
made answer, that she could not think of any amusement that 
should subject him to hours of solitude in a prison. 

Upon this Annesly was earnest in pressing her to accept Sir 
Thomas's invitation ; he said she knew how often he chose to 
be alone, at times when he could most command society ; and 
that he should find an additional pleasure in theirs, when they 
returned to him, fraught with the intelligence of the play. 

" But there is something unbecoming in it," said Harriet, "in 
the eyes of others." 

" That objection," replied Sindall, " will be easily removed ; 
we shall go, accompanied by Mrs. Eldridge, to the gallery, 
where even those who have many acquaintance in town are 
dressed so much in the incognito way, as never to be dis- 
covered." 

Annesly repeated his entreaties, Mrs. Eldridge seconded, 
Sindall enforced them ; and all three urged so many arguments, 
that Harriet was at last overcome ; and to the play they accord- 
ingly went. 

Though this was the first entertainment of the sort at which 
Harriet had ever been present, yet the thoughts of her absent 
brother, in whose company all her former amusements had been 
enjoyed, so much damped the pleasure she should have felt from 
this, that as soon as the play was over, she begged of her con- 
ductor to return, much against the desire of Mrs. Eldridge, who 
entreated them to indulge her by staying the farce. But Harriet 
seemed so uneasy at the thoughts of a longer absence from her 
brother, that the other's solicitations were at last over-ruled ; and 
making shift to get through the crowd, they left the house, and 
set out in a hackney coach on their return. 

They had got the length of two or three streets on their way, 
when the coachman, who indeed had the appearance of being 
exceedingly drunk, drove them against a post, by which acci- 



238 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

dent one of the wheels was broken to pieces, and the carriage 
itself immediately overturned. Sindall had luckily put down the 
glass on that side but a moment before, to look at something, so 
that they escaped any mischief which might have ensued from 
the breaking of it ; and, except the ladies being extremely fright- 
ened, no bad consequences followed. This disaster happened 
just at the door of a tavern ; the mistress of which, seeing the 
discomposure of the ladies, very politely begged them to step 
into her own room, till they could readjust themselves, and pro- 
cure another coach from a neighboring stand, for which she pro- 
mised immediately to dispatch one of her servants. All this 
while Sir Thomas was venting his wrath against the coachman, 
continuing to cane him most unmercifully, till stopped by the in- 
tercession of Harriet and Mrs. Eldridge, and prevailed upon to 
accompany them into the house, at the obliging request of its 
mistress. He asked pardon for giving way to his passion, 
which apprehension for their safety, he said, had occasioned ; 
and taking Harriet's hand with a look of the utmost tenderness, 
inquired if she felt no hurt from the fall ? Upon her answering, 
that, except the fright, she was pefectly well ; "then all is well," 
said he, pressing her hand to his bosom, which rose to meet it 
with a sigh. 

He then called for a bottle of Madeira, of which his compan- 
ions drank each a glass ; but upon his presenting another, Mrs. 
Eldridge declared she never tasted any thing between meals, 
and Harriet said that her head was already affected by the glass 
she had taken. This, however, he attributed to the effects of the 
overturn, for which another bumper was an infallible remedy ; 
and, on Mrs. Eldridge's setting the example, though with the 
utmost reluctance, Harriet was prevailed upon to follow it. 

She was seated on a settee at the upper end of the room, 
Sindall sat on a chair by her, and Mrs. Eldridge, from choice, 
was walking about the room ; it somehow happened that, in a 
few minutes, the last mentioned lady left her companions by 
themselves. 

Sindall, whose eyes had not been idle before, cast them now 
to the ground with a look of the most feeling discomposure; and 
gently lifting them again, " I know not," said he, " most lovely 
of women, whether I should venture to express the sensations 
of my heart at this moment ; that respect which ever attends a 
love so sincere as mine, has hitherto kept me silent ; but the 
late accident, in which all that I hold dear was endangered, has 
opened every sluice of tenderness in my soul, and I were more 
or less than man, did I resist the impulse of declaring it." 
" This is no place, Sir," — said Harriet, trembling, and covered 
with blushes. — "Every place," cried Sindall, "is sacred to love, 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 239 

where my Harriet is." At the same time he threw himself on 
his knees before her, and imprinted a thousand burning kisses 
on her hand. M Let go my hand, Sir Thomas," she cried, her 
voice faltering, and her cheek overspread with a still higher 
glow: "Never, thou cruel one," said he, (raising himself gently 
till he had gained a place on the settee by her side,) " never, till 
you listen to the dictates of a passion too violent to be longer 

resisted." At that instant some bustle was heard at the door, 

and presently after, a voice, in a country accent, vociferating, 
" It is my neighbor's own daughter, and I must see her imme- 
diately." — The door burst open, and discovered Jack Ryland, 
Mrs. Eldridge following him, with a countenance not the most 
expressive of good-humor. 

" Ryland !" exclaimed the baronet, " what is the meaning of 
this ;" advancing towards him with an air of fierceness and in- 
dignation, which the other returned with a hearty shake by the 
hand, saying, he was rejoiced to find Miss Harriet in so good 
company. — " Dear Mr. Ryland," said she, u a little confusedly, 
I am happy to see you ; but it is odd — I cannot conceive — tell 
us, as Sir Thomas was just now asking, how you came to find 
us out here ?" 

" Why, you must understand, Miss," returned Jack, " that I 
have got a little bit of a legacy left me by a relation here in Lon- 
don ; as I was coming upon that business, I thought I could do 
no less than ask your worthy father's commands for you and 
Mr. William. So we settled matters, that, as our times, I believe, 
will agree well enough, I should have the pleasure, if you are not 
otherwise engaged, of conducting you home again. I came to 
town only this day, and after having eat a mutton-chop at the inn 
where I lighted, and got myself into a little decent trim, I set out 
from a place they call Piccadilly, I think, asking every body I 
met which was the shortest road to Newgate, where I under- 
stood your brother was to be found. But I was like to make a 
marvellous long journey on't ; for besides that it is a huge long 
way, as I was told, I hardly met with one person that would give 
a mannerly answer to my questions : to be sure they are the 
most humorsome people here in London, that I ever saw in my 
life ; when I asked the road to Newgate, one told me, I was 
not likely to be long in finding it; another bade me cut the first 
throat I met, and it would show me ; and a deal of such out-of- 
the-way jokes. At last, while I was looking round for some 
civil-like body to inquire of, who should I see whip past me in a 
conch, but yourself with that lady, as I take it ; upon which I 
>ed out to the coachman to stop, but he did not hear me, as 
I suppose, and drove on as hard as, ever. I followed him close 
at the heels for some time, till the street he turned into being 



240 THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 

much darker than where I saw you first, by reason there were 
none of your torches blazing there, I fell headlong into a rut in 
the middle of it, and lost sight of the carriage before I could re- 
cover myself. However, I ran down a righthand road, which 
I guessed you had taken, asking any body I thought would give 
me an answer, if they had seen a coach with a handsome young 
woman in't, drawn by a pair of dark bays ; but, I was only 
laughed at for my pains, till I fell in, by chance, with a simple 
countryman like myself, who informed me, that he had seen 
such a one overturned just before this here large house ; and 
the door being open, I stept in without more ado, till I happened 
to hear this lady whispering something to another about Sir 
Thomas Sindall, when I guessed that you might be with him, as 
acquaintances will find one another out, you know ; and so here 
I am, at your service and Sir Thomas's." 

This history afforded as little entertainment to his hearers as 
it may have done to the greatest part of my readers ; but it gave 
Sir Thomas and Harriet time enough to recover from that con- 
fusion into which the appearance of Ryland had thrown both of 
them ; though with this difference, that Harriet's was free from 
the guilt of Sindall's, and did not even proceed from the least 
suspicion of any thing criminal in the intentions of that gen- 
tleman. 

Sir Thomas pretended great satisfaction in having met with 
his acquaintance, Mr. Ryland ; and, having obtained another 
hackney coach, they drove together to Newgate, where Jack 
received a much sincerer welcome from Annesly, and they 
passed the evening with the greatest satisfaction. 

Not but that there was something unusual in the bosom of 
Harriet, from the declaration of her lover, and in his, from the 
attempt which Providence had interposed to disappoint. He 
consoled himself, however, with the reflection, that he had not 
gone such a length as to alarm her simplicity, and took from the 
mortification of the past, by the hope of more successful villany. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 241 

CHAPTER XXI. 

An account of Annesly's departure. 

It was not long before the time arrived, in which x\nnesly 
was to bid adieu to his native country, for the term which the 
mercy of his sovereign had allotted for his punishment. He 
behaved, at this juncture, with a determined sort of coolness, not 
easily expected from one of his warmth of feelings, at a time of 
life when these are in their fullest vigor. His sister, whose 
gentle heart began to droop under the thoughts of their separa- 
tion, he employed every argument to comfort. He bade her re- 
member, that it had been determined he should be absent for 
some years before this necessity of his absence had arisen. 
*' Suppose me on my travels," said he, " my Harriet, but for a 
longer term, and the sum of this calamity is exhausted ; if there 
are hardships awaiting me, think how I should otherwise expiate 
my follies and my crimes. The punishments of Heaven, our 
father has often told us, are mercies to its children; mine, I hope, 
will have a double effect ; to wipe away my former offences, and 
prevent my offending for the future." 

He was actuated by the same steadiness of spirit in the dis- 
posal of what money his father's credit enabled him to command. 
He called in an exact account of his debts, those to Sindall not 
excepted, and discharged them in full, much against the inclina- 
tion of Sir Thomas, who insisted, as much as in decency he 
could, on cancelling every obligation of that sort to himself. But 
Annesly was positive in his resolution ; and after having cleared 
these incumbrances, he embarked, with only a few shillings in 
his pocket, saying, that he would never pinch his father's age to 
mitigate the punishment which his son had more than deserved. 

There was another account to settle, which he found a more 
difficult task. The parting with his sister he knew not how to 
accomplish, without such a pang as her tender frame could very 
ill support. At length he resolved to take at least from its 
solemnity, if he could not alleviate its anguish. Having sat, 
therefore, with Harriet till past midnight, on the eve of his de- 
parture, which he employed in renewing his arguments of con- 
solation, and earnestly recommending to her to keep up those 
spirits which should support her father and herself, he pretended 
a desire to sleep, appointed an hour for breakfasting with her in 
the morning ; and so soon as he could prevail on her to leave 
him, he went on board the boat, which waited to carry him, and 

21 



242 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

some unfortunate companions of his voyage, to the ship destined 
to transport them. 

Sir Thomas accompanied him a little way down the river, till, 
at the earnest desire of his friend, he was carried ashore in a 
sculler, which they happened to meet on their way. When they 
parted, Annesly wrung his hands, and dropping a tear on it, 
which hitherto he had never allowed himself to shed. " To my 
faithful Sindall," said he, " I leave a trust more precious to this 
bosom than every other earthly good. Be the friend of my father, 
as you have been that of his undeserving son, and protect my 
Harriet's youth, who has lost that protection a brother should 
have afforded her. If the prayers of a wretched exile in a 
foreign land can be heard of Heaven, the name of his friend 
shall rise with those of a parent and a sister in his hourly bene- 
dictions ; and if at any time you shall bestow a thought upon 
him, remember the only comfort of which adversity has not de- 
prived him, the confidence of his Sindall's kindness to those 
whom he has left weeping behind him." 

Such was the charge which Annesly gave and Sindall re- 
ceived ; he received it with a tear ; a tear, which the better 
part of his nature had yet reserved from the ruins of principle, 
of justice, of humanity. It fell involuntarily at the time, and he 
thought of it afterwards with a blush — Such was the system of 
self-applause which the refinements of vice had taught him, and 
such is the honor she has reared for the worship of her votaries ! 

Annesly kept his eyes fixed on the lights of London, till the 
increasing distance deprived them of their object. Nor did his 
imagination fail him in the picture, after that help was taken 
from him. The form of the weeping Harriet, lovely in her 
grief, still swam before his sight ; on the back ground stood a 
venerable figure, turning his eyes to heaven, while a tear that 
swelled in each dropped for the sacrifice of his sorrow, and a 
bending angel accepted it as incense. 

Thus, by a series of dissipation, so easy in its progress, that, 
if my tale were fiction, it would be thought too simple, was 
this unfortunate young man lost to himself, his friends, and his 
country. Take but a few incidents away and it is the history 
of thousands. Let not those, who have escaped the punish- 
ment of Annesly, look with indifference on the participation of 
his guilt, nor suffer the present undisturbed enjoyment of their 
criminal pleasures, to blot from their minds the idea of future 
retribution. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 243 



CHAPTER XXII. 



Harriet is informed of her brother's departure, — she leaves London on her 
return home. 

Sindall took upon himself the charge of communicating the 
intelligence of Annesly's departure to his sister. She received 
it with an enhancement of sorrow, which deprived her of its 
expression ; and when at last her tears found their way to utter 
it, " Is he gone V 9 said she, " and shall I never see him more 1 
cruel Billy ! Oh ! Sir Thomas, I had a thousand things to say ! 
and has he left me without a single adieu V 9 — " It was in kind- 
ness to you, Miss Annesly," answered the baronet, " that he 
did so." — " I believe you," said she, " I know it was ; and yet, 
methinks, he should have bid me farewell — I could have stood 
it, indeed I could — I am not so weak as you think me ; yet 
Heaven knows I have need of strength" — and she burst into 
tears again. 

Sir Thomas did not want for expressions of comfort or of 
kindness, nor did he fail, amidst the assurances of his friendship, 
to suggest those tender sensations which his bosom felt on ac- 
count of Miss Annesly. She gave him a warmth of gratitude 
in return, which, though vice may sometimes take advantage of 
it, virtue can never blame. 

His protestations were interrupted by the arrival of Ryland, 
who had accidently heard of Annesly's embarkment. Jack had 
but few words to communicate his feelings by ; but his eyes 
helped them out with an honest tear. " Your brother, I hear, 
is gone, Miss Harriet," said he : " well, Heaven bless him 
wherever he goes !" 

Harriet begged to know when it would suit his convenience 
to leave London, saying, that every day she stayed there now, 
would reproach her absence from her father. Jack made answer, 
that he could be ready to attend her at an hour's warning ; for that 
his business in London was finished, and as for pleasure,he could 
find none in it. It was agreed, therefore, contrary to the zealous 
advice of Sir Thomas and Mrs. Eldridge, that Harriet should 
set off, accompanied by Mr. Ryland, the very next morning. 

Their resolution was accomplished, and they set out by the 
break of day. Sindall accompanied them on horseback several 
stages, and they dined together about forty miles from London. 
Here, having settled their route according to a plan of Sir Tho- 
mas's, who seemed to be perfectly versant in the geography of 
the country through which they were to pass, he was prevailed 



244 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

on, by the earnest entreaty of Harriet, to return to London, and 
leave her to perform the rest of the journey under the protection 
of Mr. Ryland. 

On their leaving the inn at which they dined, there occurred 
an incident, of which, though the reader may have observed me 
not apt to dwell on trifling circumstances, I cannot help taking 
notice. While they were at dinner, they were frequently dis- 
turbed by the boisterous mirth of a company in the room imme- 
diately adjoining. This, one of the waiters informed them, 
proceeded from a gentleman, who, he believed, was travelling 
from London down into the country, and, having no companion, 
had associated with the landlord over a bottle of claret, which, 
according to the waiter's account, his honor had made so free 
with, as to be in a merrier, or, as that word may generally be 
translated, a more noise-making mood than usual. As Sindall 
was handing Harriet into the postchaise, they observed a gentle- 
man, whom they concluded to be the same whose voice they had 
so often heard at dinner, standing in the passage that led to the 
door. When the lady passed him, he trod, either accidentally 
or on purpose, on the skirt of her gown behind ; and as she 
turned about to get rid of the stop, having now got sight of her 
face, he exclaimed, with an oath, that she was an angel ; and, 
seizing the hand with which she was disengaging her gown, 
pressed it to his lips in so rude a manner, that even his drunk- 
enness could not excuse it ; at least it could not to Sindall ; 
who, stepping between him and Miss Annesly, laid hold of his 
collar, and shaking him violently, demanded how he dared to 
affront the lady ; and insisted on his immediately asking her 
pardon. " Dammee," said he, hiccuping, " not on compulsion, 
dammee, for you nor any man, dammee." The landlord and 
Mr. Ryland now interposed, and, with the assistance of Harriet, 
pacified Sir Thomas, from the consideration of the gentleman's 
being in a temporary state of insanity : Sindall accordingly let 
go his hold, and went on with Harriet to the chaise, while the 
other, readjusting his neckcloth, swore that he would have an- 
other peep at the girl notwithstanding. 

When Harriet was seated in the chaise, Sindall took notice 
of the flutter into which this accident had thrown her ; she con- 
fessed that she had been a good deal alarmed, lest there should 
have been a quarrel on her account, and begged Sir Thomas, 
if he had any regard for her ease of mind, to think no more of 
any vengeance against the other gentleman. " Fear not, my 
adorable Harriet," whispered Sir Thomas ; " if I thought there 
were one kind remembrance of Sindall in that heavenly bosom" 
— the chaise drove on — she blushed a reply to this unfinished 
speech, and bowed, smiling, to its author. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 245 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

Harriet proceeds on her journey with Ryland. — A very daring attack is 
made upon them. — The consequences. 

Nothing farther happened worthy of recording, till towards 
the' close of that journey which Sir Thomas's direction had 
marked out for their first day's progress. Ryland had before 
observed, that Sir Thomas's short roads had turned out very 
sorry ones ; and when it began to be dark, Harriet's fears 
made her take notice, that they had got upon a large common, 
where for a great way round, there was not a house to be seen. 
Nor was she at all relieved by the information of the postboy, 
who, upon being interrogated by Ryland as to the safety of the 
road, answered, " To be sure master, I've known some high- 
waymen frequent this common, and there stands a gibbet hard 
by, where two of them have hung these three years." He had 
scarcely uttered this speech, when the noise of horsemen was 
heard behind them, at which Miss Annesly's heart began to pal- 
pitate, nor was her companion's free from unusual agitation. 
He asked the postboy in a low voice, if he knew the riders 
who were coming up behind ; the boy answered in the negative, 
but that he needed not be afraid, as he observed a carriage along 
with them. 

The first of the horsemen now passed the chaise in which 
Ryland and Harriet were, and at the distance of a few yards 
they crossed the road, and made a halt on the other side of it. 
Harriet's fears were now too much alarmed to be quieted by 
the late assurances of the postboy : she was not, indeed, long 
suffered to remain in a state of suspense; one of those objects 
of her terror called to the driver to stop ; which the lad had no 
sooner complied with, than he rode up to the side of the carriage 
where the lady was seated, and told her, in a tone rather pe- 
remptory than threatening, that she must allow that gentleman 
(meaning Ryland) to accept of a seat in another carriage, which 
was just behind, and do him and his friends the honor of taking 
one of them for her companion. He received no answer to this 
demand, she to whom it was made having fainted into the arms 
of her terrified fellow-traveller. In this state of insensibility, 
Ryland was forced, by the inhuman ruffian and his associates, 
to leave her, and enter a chaise which now drew up to receive 
him ; and one of the gang, whose appearance bespoke some- 
thing of a higher rank than the rest, seated himself by her, and 

21* 



246 THE MAN OF THE WORLD, 

was very assiduous in using proper means for her recovery. 
When that was effected, he begged her, in terms of great polite- 
ness, not to make herself in the least uneasy, for that no harm 

was intended. "Oh heavens!" she cried, " where am I? 

What would you have ? Whither would you carry me 1 Where 
is Mr. Ryland?" — " If you mean the gentleman in whose com- 
pany you were, Madam, you may be assured, that nothing ill 
shall happen to him any more than to yourself." — "Nothing ill !" 
said she ; " merciful God ! What do you intend to do with mel" 
— " I would not do you a mischief for the world," answered he, 
" and if you will be patient for a little time, you shall be satis- 
fied that you are in danger of none." — All this while they forced 
the postboy to drive on full speed ; and there was light enough 
for Harriet to discover, that the road they took had so little the 
appearance of a frequented one, that there was but a very small 
chance of her meeting with any relief. In a short time after, 
however, when the moon shining out made it lighter, she found 
they were obliged to slacken their pace, from being met, in a 
narrow part of the road, by some persons on horseback. The 
thoughts of a relief recruited a little her exhausted spirits ; and 
having got down the front glass, she called out as loud as she 
was able, begging their assistance to rescue a miserable crea- 
ture from ruffians. One, who attended the carriage by way of 
guard, exclaimed, that it was only a poor wretch out of her 
senses, whom her friends were conveying to a place of security : 
but Harriet, notwithstanding some endeavors of the man in the 
chaise to prevent her, cried out with greater vehemence than 
before, entreating them, for God's sake, to pity and relieve her. 
By this time one, who had been formerly behind, came up to 
the front of the party they had met, and overhearing this last 
speech of Harriet's — " Good God !" said he, " can it be Miss 
Annesly V Upon this, her companion in the carriage jumped 
out with a pistol in his hand, and presently she heard the report 
of fire-arms, at which the horses taking fright, ran furiously 
across the fields for a considerable way before their driver was 
able to stop them. He had scarcely accomplished that, when he 
was accosted by a servant in livery, who bade him fear nothing, 
for that his master had obliged the villains to make off. — " Eter- 
nal blessings on him !" cried Harriet, " and to that Providence 
whose instrument he is." — " To have been of any service to 
Miss Annesly," replied a gentleman who now appeared leading 

his horse, " rewards itself." It was Sindall! — "Gracious 

powers !" exclaimed the astonished Harriet, " can it be you, Sir 
Thomas ?" — " Compose yourself, my dear Miss Annesly," said 
he, " lest the surprise of your deliverance should overpower 
your spirits." — He had opened the door of the chaise, and Har- 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 247 

riet by a natural motion, made room for him to sit by her. He 
accordingly gave his horse to a servant, and stepped into the 
chaise, directing the driver to strike down a particular path, 
which would lead him to a small inn, where he had sometimes 
passed the night when a-hunting. 

When he pulled up the glass, "Tell me, tell me, Sir Thomas," 
said Harriet, " what guardian angel directed you so unexpectedly 
to my relief?" — "That guardian angel, my fairest, which I trust 
will ever direct us to happiness ; my love, my impatient love, 
that could not bear the tedious days which my Harriet's pre- 
sence had ceased to brighten." When she would have ex- 
pressed the warmth of her gratitude for his services : " Speak 
not of them," said he ; " I only risked a life in thy defence, which, 
without thee, it is nothing to possess." 

They now reached that inn to which Sindall had directed 
them ; where if they found a homely, yet it was a cordial recep- 
tion. The landlady, who had the most obliging and attentive 
behaviour in the world, having heard of the accident which had 
befallen the lady, produced some waters which, she said, were 
highly cordial, and begged Miss Annesly to take a large glass 
of them ; informing her, that they were made after a receipt of 
her grandmother's, who was one of the most notable doctresses 
in the country. Sir Thomas, however, was not satisfied with 
this prescription alone, but dispatched one of his servants to 
fetch a neighboring surgeon, as Miss Annesly's alarm, he said, 
might have more serious consequences than people, ignorant of 
such things, could imagine. For this surgeon, indeed, there 
seemed more employments than one ; the sleeve of Sir Thomas's 
shirt was discovered to be all over blood, owing, as he imagined, 
to the grazing of a pistol ball which had been fired at him. This 
himself treated very lightly, but it awakened the fears and ten- 
derness of Harriet in the liveliest manner. 

The landlady now put a question, which indeed might naturally 
have suggested itself before ; to wit, Whom they suspected to be 
the instigators of this outrage? Sir Thomas answered, that, for 
his part, he could form no probable conjecture about the matter ; 
and, turning to Miss Annesly, asked her opinion on the subject ; 
" Sure," said he, " It could not have been that ruffian who was 
rude to you at the inn where we dined." Harriet answered, that 
she could very well suppose it might ; adding, that though in the 
confusion she did not pretend to have taken very distinct notice 
of things, yet she thought there was a person standing at the 
door, near to that drunken gentleman, who had some resem- 
blance to the man that sat by her in the chaise. 

They were interrupted by the arrival of the surgeon, which, 
from the vigilance of the servant happened in a much shorter 



248 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

time than could have been expected; and Harriet peremptorily 
insisted, that, before he took any charge of her, he should 
examine and dress the wound on Sir Thomas's arm. To this, 
therefore, the baronet was obliged to consent ; and after having 
been some time with the operator in an adjoining chamber, they 
returned together, Sir Thomas's arm being slung in a piece of 
crape, and the surgeon declaring, highly to Miss Annesly's sat- 
isfaction, that with proper care there was no sort of danger; 
though he added, that if the shot had taken a direction but half 
an inch more to the left, it would have shattered the bone to 
pieces. This last declaration drove the blood again from Har- 
riet's cheek, and contributed, perhaps, more than any thing else, 
to that quickness and tremulation of pulse which the surgeon, 
on applying his finger to her wrist, pronounced to be the case* 
He ordered his patient to be undrest; which was accordingly 
done ; the landlady accommodated her with a bedgown ©f her 
own ; and then, having mulled a little wine, he mixed in it some 
powders of his own composition, a secret, he said, of the greatest 
efficacy in readjusting any disorders in the nervous system ; of 
which draught he recommended a large teacup full to be taken 
immediately. Harriet objected strongly against these powders, 
till the surgeon seemed to grow angry at her refusal, and reca- 
pitulated in a very rapid manner, the success which their admin- 
istration had in many great families who did him the honor of 
employing him. Harriet, the gentleness of whose nature could 
offend no one living, overcame her reluctance, and swallowed 
the dose that was offered her. 

The indignation of my soul has with difficulty submitted so 
long to this cool description of a scene of the most exquisite vil- 
lany. The genuineness of my tale needs not the aid of sur- 
prise to interest the feelings of my readers. It is with horror I 
tell them, that the various incidents, which this and the preceding 
chapter contain, were but the prelude of a design formed by Sin- 
dall for the destruction of that innocence, which was the dowry 
of Annesly's daughter. He had contrived a route the most pro- 
per for the success of his machinations, which the ignorance of 
Ryland was prevailed on to follow : he had bribed a set of ban- 
ditti to execute that sham rape, which his seeming valor was to 
prevent; he had scratched his wrist with a penknife, to make the 
appearance of being wounded in the cause ; he had trained his 
victim to the house of a wretch whom he had before employed 
in purposes of a similar kind ; he had dressed one of his own 
creatures to personate a surgeon, and that surgeon, by his direc- 
tions, had administered certain powders, of which the damnable 
effects were to assist the execution of his villany. 

Beset with toils like these, his helpless prey was, alas I too 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 249 

much in his power to have any chance of escape ; and that 
guilty night completed the ruin of her, whom, but the day before, 
the friend of Sind.ill, in the anguish of his soul, had recom- 
mended to his care and protection. 

Let me close this chapter on the monstrous deed! — That 

such things are, is a thought distressful to humanity their 

detail can gratify no mind that deserves to be gratified. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

The situation of Harriet, and the conduct of Sindall. — They proceed home- 
ward. — Some incidents in their journey. 

I would describe, if I could, the anguish which the recollec- 
tion of the succeeding day brought on the mind of Harriet 
Annesly. — But it is in such passages, that the expression of the 
writer will do little justice even to his own feelings ; much must 
therefore be left to those of the reader. 

The poignancy of her own distress was doubled by the idea 
of her father's ; a father's whose pride, whose comfort, but a 
few weeks ago, she had been, to whom she was now to return 
deprived of that innocence which could never be restored. I 
should rather say that honor; for guilt it could not be called, 
under the circumstances into which she had been betrayed ; but 
the world has little distinction to make ; and the fall of her, 
whom the deepest villany has circumvented, it brands with that 
common degree of infamy, which, in its justice, it always im- 
putes to the side of the less criminal party. 

Sindall's pity (for we will do him no injustice) might be touch- 
ed; his passion was but little abated; and he employed the lan- 
guage of both to comfort the affliction he had caused. From the 
violence of what, by the perversion of words, is termed love, he 
excused the guilt of his past conduct, and protested his readiness 
to wipe it away by the future. He begged that Harriet would not 
suffer her delicacy to make her unhappy under the sense of their 
connexion ; he vowed that he considered her as his wife, and 
that, as soon as particular circumstances would allow him, he 
would make her what the world called so, though the sacredness 
of his attachment was above being increased by any form what- 
ever. 

There was something in the mind of Harriet which allowed 
her little ease under all these protestations of regard ; but they 
took off* the edge of her present affliction, and she heard them, 



250 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

if not with a warmth of hope, at least with an alleviation of 
despair. 

They now set out on their return to the peaceful mansion of 
Annesly. How blissful, in any other circumstances, had Har- 
riet imagined the sight of a father, whom she now trembled to 
behold! 

They had not proceeded many miles, when they were met by 
Ryland, attended by a number of rustics, whom he had assembled 
for the purpose of searching after Miss Annesly. It was only 
indeed by the lower class that the account he gave had been 
credited, for which those who did not believe it cannot much be 
blamed, when we consider its improbability, and likewise that 
Jack's persuasive powers were not of a sort that easily induces 
persuasion, even when not disarranged by the confusion and 
fright of such an adventure. 

His joy at finding Harriet safe in the protection of Sir Thomas, 
was equally turbulent with his former fears for her welfare. After 
rewarding his present associates with the greatest part of the 
money in his pocket, he proceeded, in a manner not the most 
distinct, to give an account of what befel himself subsequent to 
that violence which had torn him from his companion. The 
chaise, he said, into which he was forced, drove, by several cross 
roads, about three or four miles from the place where they were 
first attacked ; it then stopping, his attendant commanded him 
to get out, and, pointing to a farmhouse, which by the light of 
the moon was discernible at some distance, told him, that, if he 
went thither, he would find accommodation for the night, and 
might pursue his journey with safety in the morning. 

He now demanded, in his turn, a recital from Harriet of her 
share of their common calamity, which she gave him in the few 
words the present state of her spirits could afford. When she 
had ended, Ryland fell on his knees in gratitude to Sir Thomas 
for her deliverance. Harriet turned on Sindall a look infinitely 
expressive, and it was followed by a starting tear. 

They had now proceeded to the next stage on their way 
homeward, Sindall declaring, that, after what had happened, he 
would, on no account, leave Miss Annesly, till he had delivered 
her safe into the hands of her father. She heard this speech 
with a sigh so deep, that if Ryland had possessed much pene- 
tration, he would have made conjectures of something uncom- 
mon in her mind ; but he was guiltless of imputing to others, 
what his honesty never experienced in himself. Sir Thomas 
observed it better, and gently chid it by squeezing her hand in his. 

At the inn where they first stopped, they met with a gentle- 
man who made the addition of a fourth person to their party, 
being an officer who was going down to the same part of the 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 251 

country on recruiting orders, and happened to be a particular 
acquaintance of Sir Thomas Sindall : his name was Camplin. 

He afforded to their society an ingredient of which at present 
it seemed to stand pretty much in need ; to wit, a proper share 
of mirth and humor, for which nature seemed by a profusion of 
animal spirits, to have very well fitted him. She had not per- 
haps bestowed on him much sterling wit ; but she had given 
him abundance of that counterfeit assurance, which frequently 
passes more current than the real. In this company, to which 
chance had associated him, he had an additional advantage from 
the presence of Ryland, whom he very soon discovered to be 
of that order of men called Butts, those easy cushions (to 
borrow a metaphor of Otway's) on whom the wits of the world 
repose and fatten. Besides all this, he had a fund of conver- 
sation, arising from the adventures of a life, which according to 
his own account, he had passed equally in the perils of war and 
the luxuries of peace ; his memoirs affording repeated instances 
of his valor in dangers of the field, his address in the society of 
the great, and his gallantry in connexions with the fair. 

But lest the reader should imagine, that the real portraiture 
of this gentleman was to be found in those lineaments which he 
drew of himself, I will take the liberty candidly, though briefly, 
to communicate some particulars relating to his quality, his sit- 
uation, and his character. 

He was the son of a man who called himself an attorney, in 
a village adjoining to Sir Thomas Sindall's estate. His father, 
Sir William, with whom I made my readers a little acquainted 
in the beginning of my story, had found this same lawyer useful 
in carrying on some proceedings against his poor neighbors, 
which the delicacy of more established practitioners in the law 
might possibly have boggled at ; and he had grown into conse- 
quence with the baronet, from that pliancy of disposition which 
was suited to his service. Not that Sir William was naturally 
cruel or oppressive, but he had an exalted idea of the conse- 
quence which a great estate confers on its possessor, which 
was irritated beyond measure when any favorite scheme of his 
was opposed by a man of little fortune, however just or proper 
his reasons for opposition might be ; and, though a good sort of 
man, as I have before observed, his vengeance was implacable. 

Young Camplin, who was nearly of an age with Mr. Tommy 
Sindall, was frequently at Sir William's in quality of a depen- 
dant companion to his son ; and before the baronet died, he 
had procured him an ensign's commission in a regiment, which 
some years after was stationed in one of our garrisons abroad, 
where Camplin, much against his inclination, was under a ne- 
cessity of joining it. 



252 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

Here he happened to have an opportunity of obliging the 
chief in command, by certain little offices, which though not 
strictly honorable in themselves, are sanctioned by the favor 
and countenance of many honorable men ; and so much did 
they attach his commander to the ensign, that the latter was 
very soon promoted by his interest to the rank of a lieutenant, 
and not long after was enabled to make a very advantageous 
purchase of a company. 

With this patron also he returned to England, and was re- 
ceived at all times in a very familiar manner into his house ; 
where he had the honor of carving good dishes, which he was 
sometimes permitted to taste, of laughing at jokes which he 
was sometimes allowed to make, and carried an obsequious 
face into all companies, who were not treated with such extra- 
ordinary respect as to preclude his approach. 

About this time, his father, whose business in the country 
had not increased since the death of Sir William Sindall, had 
settled in London, where the reader will recollect the having 
met with him in a former chapter ; but the captain, during his 
patron's residence there, lived too near St. James's to make 
many visits to Gray's Inn ; and after that gentleman left the 
town, he continued to move amidst a circle of men of fashion, 
with whom he contrived to live in a manner which has been 
often defined by the expression of " nobody knows how :" 
which sort of life he had followed uninterruptedly without ever 
joining his regiment, till he was now obliged by the change of 
a colonel, to take some of the duty in his turn, and was ordered 
a-recruiting, as I have taken due occasion to relate. 

In this company did Harriet return to her father. As the 
news of disaster is commonly speedy in its course, the good 
man had already been confusedly informed of the attack which 
had been made on his daughter. To him, therefore, this meet- 
ing was so joyful, as almost to blot from his remembrance the 
calamities which had lately befallen his family. But far differ- 
ent were the sensations of Harriet : she shrunk from the sight of 
a parent, of whose purity she now conceived herself unworthy, 
and fell blushing on his neck, which she bathed with a profusion 
of tears. This he imagined to proceed from her sensibility of 
those woes which her unhappy brother had suffered ; and he 
forbore to take notice of her distress, any otherwise than by 
maintaining a degree of cheerfulness himself, much above what 
the feelings of his heart could warrant. 

He was attended, when her fellow travellers accompanied 
Miss Annesly to his house, by a gentleman, whom he now in- 
troduced to her by the name of Rawlinson, saying he was a 
very worthy friend of his, who had lately returned from abroad. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 253 

Harriet, indeed, recollected to have heard her father mention 
such a one in their conversation before. Though a good deal 
younger than Annesly, he had been a very intimate school-fel- 
low of his in London, from which place he was sent to the East 
Indies, and returned as was common in those days, with some 
thousand pounds, and a good conscience, to his native country. 
A genuine plainness of manners, and a warm benevolence of 
heart, neither the refinements of life, nor the subtleties of traffic, 
had been able to weaken in Rawlinson ; and he set out under 
the impression of both, immediately after his arrival in England, 
to visit a companion, whose virtues he remembered with ven- 
eration, and the value of whose friendship he had not forgotten. 
Annesly received him with the welcome which his fireside ever 
afforded to the worthy ; and Harriet, through the dimness of her 
grief, smiled on the friend of her father. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

Something farther of Mr. Rawlinson. 

Rawlinson found his reception so agreeable, that he length' 
ened his visit much beyond the limits which he at first intended 
it ; and the earnest request of Annesly, to whom his friend's 
company was equally pleasing, extended them still a little farther. 

During this period, he had daily opportunities of observing' 
the amiable dispositions of Harriet. He observed, indeed, a 
degree of melancholy about her, which seemed extraordinary in 
one of her age ; but he was satisfied to account for it, from the 
relation, which her father had given him, of the situation of his 
son, and that remarkable tenderness of which his daughter was 
susceptible. When viewed in this light, it added to the good 
opinion which he already entertained of her. 

His esteem for Miss Annesly showed itself by every mark of 
attention, which a regard for the other sex unavoidably prompts 
in ours ; and a young woman, or her father, who had no more 
penetration in those matters than is common to many, would 
not have hesitated to pronounce that Rawlinson was already 
the lover of Harriet. But as neither she nor her father had any 
wishes pointing that way, which had been one great index for dis- 
covery, they were void of any suspicion of his intentions, till he 
declared them to Annesly himself. 

22 



254 THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 

He did this with an openness and sincerity conformable to 
the whole of his character. He told his friend, that he had 
now made such a fortune as enabled him to live independently, 
and that he looked for a companion to participate it, whose 
good sense would improve what were worthy, and whose good 
nature would bear what were imperfect in him. He had dis- 
covered, he said, so much of both in the mind of Miss Annesly, 
that there needed not the recommendation of being the daughter 
of his worthiest friend to determine his choice ; and that, though 
he was not old enough to be insensible to beauty, yet he was 
wise enough to consider it as the least of her good qualities. 
He added, that he made this application to her father, not to ask 
a partial exertion of his interest in his favor, but only, as the 
common friend of both, to reveal his intentions to Miss Harriet. 
" She has seen me," said he, " as I am ; if not a romantic lover, 
I shall not be a different sort of being, should she accept of me 
for a husband ; if she does not, I promise you, I shall be far 
from being offended, and will always endeavor to retain her for 
my friend, whom I have no right to blame for not choosing to be 
my wife." 

Annesly communicated this proposal to his daughter, with a 
fairness, worthy of that with which it had been entrusted to him: 
44 1 come not," said he, " my Harriet, as a despot to command, 
not as a father to persuade, but merely as the friend of Mr. 
Rawlinson, to disclose his sentiments ; that you should judge 
for yourself, in a matter of the highest importance to you, is the 
voice of reason and of nature : I blush for those parents who 
have thought otherwise. I would not even, with a view to this 
particular case, obtrude my advice ; in general, you have heard 
my opinion before, that the violence which we have been accus- 
tomed to apply to love, is not always necessary towards happi- 
ness in marriage ; at the same time that it is a treason of the 
highest kind in a woman to take him for a husband, whom a 
decent affection has not placed in that situation, whence alone 
she should choose one. But my Harriet has not merely been 
taught sentiments ; I know she has learned the art of forming 
them ; and here she shall be entrusted entirely to her own." 

The feelings of Harriet on this proposal, and the manner in 
which her father communicated it, were of so tender a kind, that 
she could not restrain her tears. There w r anted, indeed, but 
little to induce her to confess all that had passed with Sindall, 
and throw herself on the clemency of her indulgent parent. Had 
she practised this sincerity, which is the last virtue we should 
ever part with, how happy had it been ! But it required a degree 
of fortitude, as well as softness, to make this discovery; besides, 
that her seducer had, with the tenderest entreaties, and assur- 



the Man of the world. 255 

ances of a speedy reparation of her injuries, prevailed on her to 
give him something like a promise of secrecy. 

Her answer to this offer of Mr. Rawlinson's, expressed her 
sense of the obligation she lay under to him, and to her father ; 
she avowed an esteem for his character equal to its excellence, 
but that it amounted not to that tender regard which she must 
feel for the man whom she could think of making her husband. 

Rawlinson received his friend's account of this determination 
without discomposure. He said, he knew himself well enough 
to believe that Miss Annesly had made an honest and a proper 
declaration ; and begged to have an interview with herself, to 
show her that he conceived not the smallest resentment at her 
refusal, which, on the contrary, though it destroyed his hopes, 
had increased his veneration for her. 

" Regard me not," said he to her when they met, " with that 
aspect of distance, as if you had offended or affronted me ; let 
me not lose that look of kindness which, as the friend of your 
father and yourself, I have formerly experienced. I confess 
there is one disparity between us, which we elderly men are apt 
to forget, but which I take no offence at being put in mind of. 
It is more than probable that I shall never be married at all. 
Since I am not a match for you, Miss Annesly, I would en- 
deavor to make you somewhat better, if it is possible, for 
another ; do me the favor to accept of this paper, and let it 
speak for me, that I would contribute to your happiness, without 
the selfish consideration of its being made one with my own." 
So saying he bowed, and retired into an adjoining apartment, 
where his friend was seated. Harriet, upon opening the paper, 
found it to contain bank bills to the amount of a thousand pounds. 
Her surprise at this instance of generosity held her, for a few 
moments, fixed to the spot ; but she no sooner recollected her- 
self, than she followed Mr. Rawlinson, and putting the paper, 
with its contents, into his hand, " Though I feel, Sir," said she, 
" with the utmost gratitude, those sentiments of kindness and 
generosity you have expressed towards me, you will excuse me, 
I hope, from receiving this mark of them." — Rawlinson's coun- 
tenance betrayed some indications of displeasure. — " You do 
wrong," said he, " young lady, and I will be judged by your 

father This was a present, Sir, I intended for the worthiest 

woman — the daughter of my worthiest friend ; she is a woman 
still, I see, and her pride will no more than her affections sub- 
mit itself to my happiness." Annesly looked upon the bank 
bills : " There is a delicacy, my best friend," said he, " in our 
situation; the poor must ever be cautious, and there is a certain 
degree of pride which is their safest virtue." — " Let me tell 
you," interrupted the other, " this is not the pride of virtue. It 



256 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

is that fantastic nicety which is a weakness in the soul, and the 
dignity of great minds is above it. Believe me, the churlish- 
ness which cannot oblige, is little more selfish, though in a dif- 
ferent mode, than the haughtiness which will not be obliged." 

"We are instructed, my child," said Annesly, delivering her 
the paper ; " let us show Mr. Rawlinson that we have not that 
narrowness of mind which he has censured ; and that we will 
pay that last tribute to his worth which the receiving of a favor 
bestows." 

" Indeed, Sir," said Harriet, " I little deserve it ; I am not, I 
am not what he thinks me. — I am not worthy of his regard." 
And she burst into tears. They knew not why she wept ; but 
their eyes shed each a sympathetic drop, without asking their 
reason's leave. 

Mr. Rawlinson speedily set out for London, where his pre- 
sence was necessary towards dispatching some business he had 
left unfinished, after his return to England. He left his friend, 
and his friend's amiable daughter, with a tender regret ; while 
they, who, in their humble walk of life, had few to whom that 
title would belong, felt his absence with an equal emotion. He 
promised, however, at his departure, to make them another visit 
with the return of the spring. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

Captain Camplin is again introduced. — The situation of Miss Annesly, with 
that gentleman's concern in her affairs. 

His place was but ill supplied, at their winter's fireside, by 
the occasional visits of Camplin, whom Sindall had introduced 
to Annesly's acquaintance. Yet, though this was a character on 
which Annesly could not bestow much of his esteem, it had some 
good-humored qualities, which did not fail to entertain and amuse 
him. But the captain seemed to be less agreeable in that quarter 
to which he principally pointed his attention, to wit, the opinion 
of Harriet, to whom he took frequent occasion to make those 
speeches, which have just enough of folly in them to acquire the 
name of compliments, and sometimes even ventured to turn 
them in so particular a manner, as if he wished to have them 
understood to mean somewhat more. 

The situation of the unfortunate Harriet was such as his 
pleasantry could not divert, and his attachment could only dis- 
gust. As she had lost that peace of mind which inward satis- 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 257 

faction alone can bestow, so she felt the calamity doubled, by 
that obligation to secrecy she was under, and the difficulty 
which her present condition (for she was now with child) made 
such a concealment be attended with. Often had she deter- 
mined to reveal, either to her father or to Mrs. Wistanly, who, 
of her own sex, was her only friend, the story of her dishonor ; 
but Sindall, by repeated solicitations when in the country, and a 
constant correspondence when in town, conjured her to be silent, 
for some little time, till he could smooth the way for bestowing 
his hand on the only woman whom he had ever sincerely loved. 
One principal reason for his postponing their union, had always 
been the necessity for endeavoring to gain over the assent of 
his grandfather by the mother's side, from whom Sindall had 
great expectations ; he had, from time to time, suggested this as 
difficult, and only to be attempted with caution, from the proud 
and touchy disposition of the old gentleman. He now repre- 
sented him as in a very declining state of health ; and that, pro- 
bably, in a very short time, his death would remove this obstacle 
to the warmest wish of a heart that was ever faithful to his 
Harriet. The flattering language of his letters could not arrest 
the progress of that time, which must divulge the shame of her 
he had undone ; but they soothed the tumults of a soul to whom 
his villany was yet unknown, and whose affection his appearance 
of worth, of friendship, and nobleness of mind, had but too 
much entangled. 

However imperfectly he had accounted for delaying a mar- 
riage, which he always professed his intention to perform, the 
delusion was kept up in the expectations of Harriet, till that 
period began to draw near, when it would be impossible any 
longer to conceal from the world the effects of their intimacy. 
Then, indeed, her uneasiness was not to be allayed by such ex- 
cuses as Sindall had before relied on her artless confidence to 
believe. He wrote her, therefore, an answer to a letter full of 
the most earnest as well as tender expostulations, informing her 
of his having determined to run any risk of inconvenience to 
himself, rather than suffer her to remain longer in a state, such 
as she had (pathetically indeed) described — That he was to set 
out in a few days for the country, to make himself indissolubly 
hers ; but that it was absolutely necessary that she should allow 
him to conduct their marriage in a particular manner, which he 
would communicate to her on his arrival ; and begged, as she 
valued his peace and her own, that the whole matter might still 
remain inviolably secret, as she had hitherto kept it. 

In a few days after the receipt of this letter, she received a 
note from Camplin, importing his desire to have an interview 
with her on some particular business, which related equally to 

22* 



258 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

her and to Sir Thomas Sindall. The time appointed was early 
in the morning of the succeeding day ; and the place a little 
walk which the villagers used to frequent in holiday times, at 
the back of her father's garden. This was delivered to her, in 
a secret manner, by a little boy, an attendant of that gentleman's, 
who was a frequent guest in Annesly's kitchen, from his talent 
at playing the flageolet, which he had acquired in the capacity of 
a drummer to the regiment to which his master belonged. Mys- 
terious as the contents of this note was, the mind of Harriet 
easily suggested to her, that Camplin had been, in some respect 
at least, let into the confidence of Sir Thomas. She now felt 
the want of that dignity which innocence bestows ; she blushed 
and trembled, even in the presence of this little boy, because he 
was Camplin's ; and, with a shaking hand, scrawled a note in 
answer to that he had brought her, to let his master know that 
she would meet him at the hour he had appointed. — She met 
him accordingly. 

He began with making many protestations of his regard, both 
for Miss Annesly and the baronet, which had induced him, he 
said, to dedicate himself to the service of both in this affair, 
though it was a matter of such delicacy as he would not other- 
wise have chosen to interfere in; and, putting into her hand a 
letter from Sindall, told her, he had taken measures for carrying 
into execution the purpose it contained. 

It informed her that Sir Thomas was in the house of an old 
domestic at some miles distance, where he waited to be made 
her's. Thai he had for this secrecy many reasons, with which 
he could not by such a conveyance make her acquainted, but 
which her own prudence would probably suggest. He con- 
cluded by recommending her to the care and protection of 
Camplin, whose honor he warmly extolled. 

She paused a moment on the perusal of this billet. — " Oh ! 
heavens!" said she, "to what have I reduced myself! Mr. 
Camplin, what am I to do 1 Whither are you to carry me] 
Pardon my confusion — I scarce know what I say to you." 

" I have a chaise-and-four ready," answered Camplin, " at 
the end of the lane, which in an hour or two, Madam, will convey 
you to Sir Thomas Sindall." — " But my father ! good Heaven ! 
to leave my father !" " Consider," said he, "it is for a very lit- 
tle while. My boy shall carry a note to acquaint him that you 
are gone on a visit, and will return in the evening." " Return ! 
methinks I feel a foreboding that I shall never return." He put 
a piece of paper and a pencil into her hand ; the note was written, 
and dispatched by the boy, to whom he beckoned at some dis- 
tance where he had waited. " Now, Madam," said he, " let me 
conduct you."- Her knees knocked so against each other 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 259 

that it was with difficulty she could walk, even with the support 
of his arm. They reached the chaise, a servant, who stood by it, 
opened the door to admit her ; she put her toot on the step, then 
drew it back again. " Be not afraid, Madam," said Camplin, 
" You go to be happy." She put her foot up again, and stood 
in that attitude a moment ; she cast back a look to the little man- 
sion of her father, whence the smoke was now rolling its vo- 
lumes in the calm of a beautiful morning. A gush of tender- 
ness swelled her heart at the sight. She burst into tears — But 
the crisis of her fate was come — and she entered the carriage, 
which drove off at a furious rate, Camplin commanding the pos- 
tilion to make as much speed as possible. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

The effects which the event contained in the preceding chapter had on Mr. 
Annesly. 

The receipt of that note which Harriet was persuaded by 
Camplin to write to her father, (intimating, that she was gone 
upon a visit to a family in the neighborhood, and not to return 
till the evening,) though her time of going abroad was somewhat 
unusual, did not Create any surprise in the mind of Annesly; but 
it happened that Mrs. Wistanly, who called in the afternoon to 
inquire after her young friend, had just left the very house where 
her message imported her visit to be made. This set her father 
on conjecturing, yet without much anxiety, and with no suspicion; 
but his fears were redoubled when, having set up till a very late 
hour, no tidings arrived of his daughter. He went to bed, how- 
ever, though it could not afford him sleep ; at every bark of the 
village dogs his heart bounded with the hopes of her return ; but 
the morning arose, and did not restore him his Harriet. 

His uneasiness had been observed by his servants, to whom 
he was too indulgent a master to have his interests considered 
by them with less warmth than their own. Abraham, therefore, 
who was coeval with his master, and had served him ever sinco 
he was married, had sallied forth by day break in search of 
intelligence. He was met accidentally by a huntsman of Sir 
Thomas Sindall's, who informed him, that as he crossed the 
lane at the back of the village the morning before, he saw Miss 
Annesly leaning on Captain Camplin's arm, and walking with 
him towards a chaise-and-four, which stood at the end of it 



260 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

Abraham's cheeks grew pale at this intelligence, because he had 
a sort of' instinctive terror for Camplin, who was in use to make 
his awkward simplicity a fund for many jests and tricks of mis- 
chief, during his visits to Annesly. He hastened home to com- 
municate this discovery to his master, which he did with a fal- 
tering tongue, and many ejaculations of fear and surprise. An- 
nesly received it with less emotion, though not without an in- 
crease of uneasiness. "Yonder," said Abraham, looking through 
the window, " is the captain's little boy ;" and he ran out of 
the room to bring him to an examination. The lad, upon being 
interrogated, confessed that his master had sent him to hire 
a chaise, which was to be in waiting at the end of that lane I 
have formerly mentioned, at an early hour in the morning, and 
that he saw Miss Annesly go into it attended by the captain, 
who had not, any more than Miss Harriet, been at home or heard 
of since that time. This declaration deprived Annesly of utter- 
ance ; but it only added to the warmth of Abraham's inquisition, 
who now mingling threats with his questions, drew from the boy 
the secret of his having privately delivered a letter from his mas- 
ter to Miss Annesly, the very night preceding the day of their 
departure ; and that a man of his acquaintance, who had stopped 
about midday at the ale house where he was quartered, told 
him, by way of conversation, that he had met his master with 
a lady, whom he supposed, jeeringly, he was running away 
with, driving at a great rate on the road towards London. Abra- 
ham made a sign to the boy to leave the room. " My poor dear 
young lady !" said he, as he shut the door, and the tears gushed 
from his eyes. His master's were turned upwards to that Being 
to whom calamity ever directed them. The maidservant now 
entered the room, uttering some broken exclamations of sorrow, 
which a violent sobbing rendered inarticulate. Annesly had 
finished his account with Heaven; and addressing her with a de- 
gree of calmness, which the good man could derive only thence, 
asked her the cause of her being afflicted in so unusual a man- 
ner. " Oh, Sir !" said she, stifling her tears, "I have heard what 
the captain's boy has been telling ; I fear it is but too true, and 
worse than you imagine ! God forgive me, if I wrong Miss 
Harriet ; but I suspect — I have suspected for some time" — she 
burst into tears again — "that my young lady is with child." 
Annesly had stretched his fortitude to the utmost — this last blow 
overcame it, and he fell senseless on the floor ! Abraham threw 
himself down by him, tearing his white locks, and acting all the 
frantic extravagances of grief. But the maid was more useful 
to her master; and having raised him gently, and chafed his tem- 
ples, he began to show some signs of reviving, when Abraham 
recollected himself so far as to assist his fellow servant in car- 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 261 

rying him to his chamber, and laying him on his bed, where he 
recovered the powers of life, and the sense of his misfortune. 

Their endeavors for his recovery were seconded by Mrs. Wis- 
tanly, who had made this early visit to satisfy some doubts which 
she, as well as Annesly, had conceived, even from the informa- 
tion of the preceding day. When he first regained the use of 
speech, he complained of a violent shivering, for which this good 
lady, from the little skill she possessed in physic, prescribed 
some simple remedies, and at the same time dispatched Abra- 
ham for an apothecary in the neighborhood, who commonly 
attended the family. 

Before this gentleman arrived, Annesly had received so much 
temporary relief from Mrs. Wistanly's prescriptions, as to be 
able to speak with more ease, than the incessant quivering of his 
lips had before allowed him to do. " Alas !" said he, " Mrs. 
Wistanly, have you heard of my Harriet?" " I have, Sir," said 
she, " with equal astonishment and sorrow ; yet let me entreat 
you not to abandon that hope which the present uncertainty may 
warrant. I cannot allow myself to think that things are so ill as 
your servants have informed me." " My foreboding heart," 
said he, " tells me they are ; I remember many circumstances 
now, which all meet to confirm my fears. Oh ! Mrs. Wistanly, 
she was my darling, the idol of my heart ! perhaps too much so 
— the will of heaven be done !" — 

The apothecary now arrived, who, upon examining into the 
state of his patient, ordered some warm applications to remove 
that universal coldness he complained of, and left him with a pro- 
mise of returning in a few hours, when he had finished some 
visits, which he was under a necessity of making in the village. 

W r hen he returned, he found Mr. Annesly altered for the 
worss ; the cold which the latter felt before, having given place 
to a burning heat. He therefore told Mrs. Wistanly, at going 
away, that in the evening he would bring a physician, with whom 
he had an appointment at a gentleman's not very distant, to see 
Mr. Annesly as his situation appeared to him to be attended with 
some alarming circumstances. 

His fears of danger were justified by the event. When these 
gentlemen saw Mr. Annesly in the evening, his fever was 
increased. Next day, after a restless night, they found every 
bad symptom confirmed ; they tried every method which medi- 
cal skill could suggest for his relief, but, during four successive 
days, their endeavors proved ineffectual ; and at the expiration 
of that time, they told his friend, Mrs. Wistanly, who had en- 
joyed almost as little sleep as the sick man whom she watched, 
that unless some favorable crisis should happen soon, the worst 
consequences were much to be feared. 



262 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The arrival of Mr. Rawlinson. — Annesly's discourse with him. — That gen- 
tleman's account of his friend's illness, and its consequences. 

At this melancholy period it happened that Mr. Rawlinson 
arrived, in pursuance of that promise which Annesly had obtained 
from him, at the time of his departure for London. There 
needed not that warmth of heart we have formerly described 
in this gentleman, to feel the accumulated distress to which his 
worthy friend was reduced. Nor was his astonishment at the 
account which he received of Harriet's elopement less than his 
pity for the sufferings it had brought upon her father. From 
the present situation of Annesly's family, he did not choose to 
incommode them with any trouble of provision for him. He 
took up his quarters, therefore, at the only inn, a paltry one in- 
deed, which the village afforded, and resolved to remain there 
till he saw what issue his friend's present illness should have, 
and endeavor to administer some comfort, either to the last 
moments of his life, or to that affliction which his recovery could 
not remove. 

In the evening of the day on which he arrived, Annesly 
seemed to feel a sort of relief from the violence of his disease. 
He spoke with a degree of coolness which he had never before 
been able to command ; and after having talked some little time 
with his physicians, he told Abraham, who seldom quitted his 
bedside, that he thought he had seen Mr. Rawlinson enter the 
room in the morning, though he was in a confused slumber at the 
time, and might have mistaken a dream for the reality. Upon 
Abraham's informing him that Mr. Rawlinson had been there, 
and he had left the house but a moment before, and that he was 
to remain in the village for some time, he expressed the warmest 
satisfaction at the intelligence ; and having made Abraham fetch 
him a paper which lay in his bureau, sealed up in a particular 
manner, he dispatched him to the inn where his friend was, with 
a message, importing an earnest desire to see him as soon as 
should be convenient. 

Rawlinson had already returned to the house, and was by this 
time stealing up stairs, to watch at the bedside of his friend, for 
which task Mrs. Wistanly's former unceasing solicitude had now 
rendered her unfit. He was met by Abraham with a gleam of 
joy on his countenance, from the happy change which he thought 
he observed in his master ; and was conducted to the side of the 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 263 

bed by that faithful domestic, who placed him in a chair that the 
doctor had just occupied by his patient. 

Annesly stretched out his hands, and squeezed that of Raw- 
linson between them for some time, without speaking a word. 
•• I bless God," said he at last, " that he has sent me a comfort- 
er, at a moment when I so much need one. You must by this 
time have heard, my friend, of that latest and greatest of my 
family misfortunes, with which Providence has afflicted me." — 
" You know, my dear Sir," answered Rawlinson, " that no one 
would more sincerely feel for your sorrows than I ; but at pres- 
ent it is a subject to tender for you." — "Do not say so," replied 
his friend ; " it will ease my laboring heart to speak of it to my 
Rawlinson ; but in the first place I have a little business which 
I will now despatch. Here is a deed making over all my effects 
to you, Sir, and at your death, to any one you shall name your 
executor in that trust for my children — if I have any children 
remaining ! — Into your hands I deliver it with a peculiar satis- 
faction, and I know there will not need the desire of a dying 
friend to add to your zeal for their service. — Why should that 
word startle you 1 death is to me a messenger of consolation !" 
He paused : — Rawlinson put up the paper in silence ; for his 
heart was too full to allow him the use of words for an answer. 

"When I lost my son," continued Annesly, "I suffered in 
silence ; and though it preyed on me in secret, I bore up against 
the weight of my sorrow, that I might not weaken in myself that 
stay which Heaven had provided for my Harriet. — She was then 
my only remaining comfort, saved like some precious treasure 
from the shipwreck of my family ; and I fondly hoped that my 
age might go down smoothly to its rest, amidst the endearments 
of a father's care. I have now lived to see the last resting place 
which my soul could find in this world, laid waste and desolate ! 
— yet to that Being, whose goodness is infinite as his ways are 
inscrutable, let me bend in reverence ! I bless his name that he 
has not yet taken from me that trust in him, which to lose is the 
only irredeemable calamity. It is now indeed that I feel its ef- 
ficacy most, when every ray of human comfort is extinguished. 
As for me — my deliverance is at hand ; I feel something here 
at my heart that tells me I shall not have long to strive with in- 
sufferable affliction. My poor deluded daughter — I commit to 
thee, Father of all ! by whom the wanderings of thy unhappy 
children are seen with pity, and to whom their return cannot be 
too late to be accepted : if my friend should live to see her look 
back with contrition towards that path from which she has stray- 
ed, I know his goodness will lead her steps to find it. Show 
her her father's grave ; yet spare her for his sake, who cannot 
then comfort or support her." 



264 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

The rest of this narration I will give the reader in Mr. Raw- 
linson's own words, from a letter of his I have now lying before 
me, of which I will transcribe the latter part, beginning its reci- 
tal at the close of this pathetic address of his friend. 

"As I have been told," says this gentleman, "that he had not 
enjoyed one sound sleep since his daughter went away, I left 
him now to compose himself to rest, desiring his servant to call 
me instantly if he observed any thing particular about his mas- 
ter. He whispered me, ' that when he sat up with him in the 
night before, he could overhear him at times talk wildly, and 
mutter to himself like one speaking in one's sleep ; that then 
he would start, sigh deeply, and seem again to recollect him- 
self.' I went back to his master's bedside, and begged him to 
endeavor to calm his mind so much as not to prevent that re- 
pose which he stood so greatly in need of. i I have prevailed 
on my physician,' answered he, 4 to give me an opiate for that 
purpose, and I think I now feel drowsy from its effects.' I 
wished him good night. l Good night,' said he, — ' but give me 
your hand ; it is perhaps the last time I shall ever clasp it !' 
He lifted up his eyes to heaven, holding my hand in his, then 
turned away his face, and laid his head upon his pillow. I 
could not lay mine to rest. Alas ! said I, that such should be 
the portion of virtue like Annesly's ; yet to arraign the distribu- 
tion of Providence, had been to forget that lesson which the best 
of men had just been teaching me ; but the doubtings, the dark- 
ness of feeble man, still hung about my heart. 

"When I sent in the morning, I was told that he was still 
asleep, but that his rest was observed to be frequently disturbed 
by groans and startings, and that he breathed much thicker than 
he had ever hitherto done. I went myself to get more perfect 
intelligence ; his faithful Abraham met me at the door. 4 Oh ! 
Sir,' said he, 4 my poor master!' — 'What is the matter?' — 4 I 
fear, Sir, he is not in his perfect senses ; for he talks more wild- 
ly than ever, and yet he is broad awake.' — He led me into the 
room ; I placed myself directly before him ; but his eye, though 
it was fixed on mine did not seem to acknowledge his object. 
There was a glazing on it that deadened its look. 

" He muttered something in a very low voice. * How does 
my friend V said I. — He suffered me to take his hand, but an- 
swered nothing. After listening some time, I could hear the 
name of Harriet. • Do you want any thing, my dear Sir V 
He moved his lips but I heard not what he said. I repeated 
my question ; he looked up piteously in my face, then turned 
his eye round as if he missed some object on which it meant to 
rest. He shivered, and caught hold of Abraham's hand, who 
stood at the side of the bed opposite me. He looked round 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 265 

again, then uttered with a feeble and broken voice, ' Where is 
my Harriet ? lay your hand on my head — this hand is not my 
Harriet's — she is dead, I know : — you will not speak — my poor 
child is dead ! yet I dreamed she was alive, and had left me ; 
left me to die alone ! — I have seen her weep at the death of a 
linnet ! poor soul ! she was not made for this world — we shall 
meet in heaven ! — Bless her ! bless her ! there ! may you be 
as virtuous as your mother, and more fortunate than your father 
has been ! — My head is strangely convulsed ! — but, tell me, 
when did she die 1 you should have waked me that I might 
have prayed by her. Sweet innocence, she had no crimes to 
confess ! — I can speak but ill, for my tongue sticks to my 
mouth. — Yet — oh ! — Most Merciful, strengthen and support. ' 
— He shivered again — 'into thy hands' — He groaned and died!" 
Sindall ! and ye who like Sindall — but I cannot speak ! speak 
for me their consciences ! 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

What befel Harriet Annesly on her leaving her father. 

I am not in a disposition to stop in the midst of this part of 
my recital, solicitous to embellish or studious to arrange it. My 
readers shall receive it simple, as becomes a tale of sorrow, and 
I flatter myself, they are at this moment readier to feel than to 
judge it. 

They have seen Harriet Annesly, by the artifice of Sindall, 
and the agency of Camplin, tempted to leave the house of her 
father, in hopes of meeting the man who had betrayed her, and 
of receiving that only reparation for her injuries which it was 
now in his power to make. 

But Sir Thomas never entertained the most distant thought 
of that marriage, with the hopes of which he had deluded her. 
Yet, though he was not subject to the internal principles of ho- 
nor or morality, he was man of the world enough to know their 
value in the estimation of others. The virtues of Annesly had 
so much endeared him to every one within their reach, that this 
outrage of Sindall's against him, under the disguise of sacred 
friendship and regard, would have given the interest and char- 
acter of Sir Thomas such a blow, as he could not easily have 
recovered, nor conveniently borne. It is not therefore to be 

23 



%66 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

wondered at, that he wished for some expedient to conceal it 
from the eyes of the public. 

For this purpose he had formed a scheme, which all the knowl- 
edge he had of the delicacy of Harriet's affection for him, did 
not prevent his thinking practicable, (for the female who once 
falls from innocence, is held to be sunk into perpetual debase- 
ment ;) and that was to provide a husband for her in the person 
of another. And for that husband he pitched on Camplin, with 
whose character he was too well acquainted, to doubt the bring- 
ing him over to any baseness which danger did not attend, and 
a liberal reward was to follow. Camplin, who at this time was 
in great want of money, and had always an appetite for those 
pleasures which money alone can purchase, agreed to his propo- 
sals ; they settled the dowry of his future wife, and the scheme 
which he undertook to procure her. Part of its execution I have 
already related ; I proceed to relate the rest. 

When they had been driven with all the fury which Camplin 
had enjoined the postilions, for about eight or nine miles, they 
stopped at an inn, where they changed horses. Harriet expressed 
her surprise at their not having already reached the place where 
Sir Thomas waited them : on which Camplin told her, that it was 
not a great way off, but that the roads were very bad, and that 
he observed the horses to be exceedingly jaded. 

After having proceeded some miles further, on a road still 
more wild and less frequented, she repeated her wonder at the 
length of the way ; on which Camplin, entreating her pardon for 
being concerned in any how deceiving her, confessed that Sir 
Thomas was at a place much further from her father's than he 
had made her believe ; which deceit he had begged of him 
(Camplin) to practise, that she might not be alarmed at the dis- 
tance, which was necessary, he said, for that plan of secrecy 
Sir Thomas had formed for his marriage. Her fears were suffi- 
ciently roused at this intelligence, but it was now too late to 
retreat, however terrible it might be to go on. 

Some time after they stopped to breakfast, and changed horses 
again, Camplin informing her, that it was the last time they 
should have occasion to do so. Accordingly, in little more than 
an hour, during which the speed of their progress was nowise 
abated, they halted at the door of a house, which Harriet, upon 
coming out of the chaise, immediately recollected to be that fatal 
one to which Sindall had before conveyed her. She felt on en- 
tering it, a degree of horror, which the remembrance of that 
guilty night she had before passed under its roof, could not fail 
to suggest, and it was with difficulty she dragged her trembling 
steps to a room above stairs, whither the landlady, with a profu- 
sion of civility, conducted her. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 267 

w Where is Sir Thomas Sindall ?" said she, looking about with 
terror on the well-remembered objects around her. Camplin, 
shutting the door of the chamber, told her, with a look of the 
utmost tenderness and respect, that Sir Thomas was not then 
in the house, but had desired him to deliver her a letter, which 
he now put into her hand for her perusal. It contained what 
follows : 

" It is with inexpressible anguish I inform my ever dearest 
Harriet, of my inability to perform engagements, of which I 
acknowledge the solemnity, and which necessity alone has power 
to cancel. The cruelty of my grandfather is deaf to all the 
remonstrances of my love ; and having accidentally discovered 
my attachment for you, he insists upon my immediately setting 
out on my travels ; — a command which, in my present situation, 
I find myself obliged to comply with. I feel, with the most 
poignant sorrow and remorse, for that condition to which our ill- 
fated love has reduced the loveliest of her sex. I would there- 
fore, endeavor, if possible, to conceal the shame which the world 
arbitrarily affixes to it. With this view, I have laid aside all 
selfish considerations, so much as to yield to the suit of Mr. 
Camplin that hand, which I had once the happiness of expecting 
for myself. This step the exigency of your present circum- 
stances renders highly eligible, if your affections can bend them- 
selves to a man, of whose honor and good qualities I have had 
the strongest proofs, and who has generosity enough to impute no 
crime to that ardency of the noblest passion of the mind, which 
has subjected you to the obloquy of the undiscerning multitude. 
As Mrs. Camplin, you will possess the love and affection of that 
worthiest of my friends, together with the warmest esteem and 
regard of your unfortunate, but ever devoted, humble servant, 

"Thomas Sind.ill." 

Camplin was about to offer his commentary upon this letter ; 
but Harriet, whose spirits had just supported her to the end of it, 
lay now lifeless at his feet. After several successive faintings, 
from which Camplin, the landlady, and other assistants, with 
difficulty recovered her, a shower of tears came at last to her 
relief, and she became able to articulate some short exclamations 
of horror and despair ! Camplin threw himself on his knees 
before her. He protested the most sincere and disinterested 
passion ; and that, if she would bless him with the possession of 
so many amiable qualities as she possessed, the uniform endea- 
vor of his life should be to promote her happiness. — " I think 
not of thee," she exclaimed; " Oh! Sindall! perfidious, cruel, 
deliberate villain I" Camplin again interrupted her, with pro- 
testations of his own affection and regard. " Away !" said she 



268 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

" and let me hear no more ! Or, if thou wouldst show thy friend" 
ship, carry me to that father from whom thou stolest me. — You 
will not — but if I can live so long, I will crawl to his feet, and 
expire before him." 

She was running towards the door ; Camplin gently stopped 
her. " My dearest Miss Annesly," said he, " recollect yourself 
but a moment ; let me conjure you think of your own welfare, 
and of that father's whom you so justly love. For these alone 
could Sir Thomas Sindall have thought of the expedient which 
he proposes. If you will now become the wife of your adoring 
Camplin, the time of the celebration of our marriage need not 
be told to the world : under the sanction of that holy tie, every 
circumstance of detraction will be overlooked, and that life may 
be made long and happy, which your unthinking rashness would 
cut off from yourself and your father." — Harriet had listened 
little to this speech ; but the swelling of her anger had subsided ; 
she threw herself into a chair; and burst again into tears. 
Camplin drew nearer, and pressed her hand in his : she drew it 
hastily from him : " If you have any pity," she cried, " I entreat 
you for Heaven's sake to leave me." He bowed respectfully 
and retired, desiring the landlady to attend Miss Annesly, and 
endeavor to afford her some assistance and consolation. 

She had, indeed, more occasion for her assistance than he was 
then aware of; the violent agitation of her spirits having had 
such an effect on her, that, though she wanted a month of her 
time, she was suddenly seized with the pains of childbirth ; and 
they were but just able to procure a woman who acted as a mid- 
wife in the neighborhood, when she was delivered of a girl. 
Distracted as her soul was, this new object drew forth its in- 
stinctive tenderness ; she mingled tears with her kisses on its 
cheeks, and forgot the shame attending its birth, in the natural 
meltings of a mother. 

For about a week after her delivery she recovered tolerably 
well, and indeed those about her spared no pains or attention to 
contribute towards her recovery ; but, at the end of that period, 
an accident threw her into the most dangerous situation. She 
was lying in a slumber, with a nurse watching her, when a ser- 
vant of Sir Thomas Sindall's, whom his master had employed 
very actively in the progress of his designs on Miss Annesly, 
entered the room with a look of the utmost consternation and 
horror ; the nurse beckoned to him to make no noise, signifying, 
by her gestures, that the lady was asleep ; but the opening of 
the door had already awakened her, and she lay listening, when 
he told the cause of his emotion. It was the intelligence which 
he had just accidentally received of Mr. Annesly's death. The 
effect of this shock on his unfortunate daughter may be easily 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 269 

imagined ; every fatal symptom, which sudden terror or surprise 
causes in women at such a season of weakness, was the conse- 
quence, and next morning a delirium succeeded them. 

She was not, however, without intervals of reason; though 
these were but intervals of anguish much more exquisite. Yet 
she would sometimes express a sort of calmness and submission 
to the will of Heaven, though it was always attended with the 
hopes of a speedy relief from the calamities of her existence. 

In one of these hours of recollection, she was asked by her 
attendants, whose pity was now moved at her condition, if she 
chose to have any friend sent for, who might tend to alleviate 
her distress ; upon which she had command enough of herself 
to dictate a letter to Mrs. Wistanly, reciting briefly the miseries 
she had endured, and asking, with great diffidence, however, of 
obtaining, if she could pardon her offences so far, as to come and 
receive the parting breath of her once innocent and much-loved 
Harriet. This letter was accordingly dispatched : and she 
seemed to feel a relief from having accomplished it ; but her 
reason had held out beyond its usual limits of exertion ; and im- 
mediately after she relapsed into her former unconnectedness. 

Soon after the birth of her daughter, Camplin, according to 
his instructions, had proposed sending it away, under the charge 
of a nurse whom the landlady had procured, to a small hamlet, 
where she resided, at a little distance. But this the mother op- 
posed with such earnestness, that the purpose had been delayed 
till now, when it was given up to the care of this woman, accom- 
panied with a considerable sum of money to provide every 
necessary for its use, in the most ample and sumptuous manner. 

When Mrs. Wistanly received the letter we have mentioned 
above, she was not long in doubt as to complying with its re- 
quest. Her heart bled for the distresses of that once amiable 
friend, whom virtue might now blame, but goodness could not 
forsake. She set out therefore immediately in a chaise, which 
Camplin had provided for her, and reached the house, to which 
it conveyed her on the morning of the following day, her impa- 
tience not suffering her to consider either the danger or inconve- 
nience of travelling all night. — From her recital, I took down 
the account contained in the following chapter. 



23* 



270 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Mrs. Wistanly's recital. — Conclusion of the first part. 

When I entered the house, and had got upon the stairs lead- 
ing to the room in which Harriet lay, I heard a voice enchantingly 
sweet, but low, and sometimes broken, singing snatches of songs, 
varying from the sad to the gay, and from the gay to the sad : 
it was she herself, sitting up in her bed, fingering her pillow as 
if it had been an harpsichord. It is not easy to conceive the 
horror I felt on seeing her in such a situation ! She seemed 
unconscious of my approach, though her eye was turned towards 
me as I entered ; only that she stopped in the midst of a quick and 
lively movement she had begun, and looking wistfully upon me, 
breathed such a note of sorrow, and dwelt on it with a cadence 
so mournful, that my heart lost all the firmness I had resolved 
to preserve, and I flung my arms round her neck, which I 
washed with my bursting tears ! — The traces which her brain 
could now only recollect, were such as did not admit of any ob- 
ject long ; I had passed over it in the moment of my entrance, 
and it now wandered from the idea ; she paid no regard to my 
caresses, but pushed me gently from her, gazing steadfastly in 
an opposite direction towards the door of the apartment. A 
servant entered with some medicine he had been sent to pro- 
cure ; she put it by when I offered it to her, and kept looking 
earnestly upon him ; she ceased her singing too, and seemed 
to articulate certain imperfect sounds. For some time I could 
not make them out to be words, but at last she spoke more dis- 
tinctly, and with a firmer tone 

" You saved my life once, Sir, and I could then thank you, 
because I wished to preserve it ; — but now — no matter, he is 
happier than I would have him. — I would have nursed the poor 
old man till he had seen some better days ! bless his white 
beard ! — look there ! I have heard how they grow in the grave ! 
— poor old man !" 

You weep, my dear Sir ; but had you heard her speak these 
words ! I can but coldly repeat them. 

All that day she continued in a state of delirium and insensi- 
bility to every object around her ; towards evening she seemed 
exhausted with fatigue, and the tossing of her hands, which her 
frenzy had caused, grew languid, as of one breathless and worn 
out ; about midnight she dropped asleep. 

I sat with her during the night, and when she waked in the 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 271 

morning, she gave signs of having recovered her senses, by 
recollecting me and calling me by my name. At first, indeed, 
her questions were irregular and wild ; but in a short time she 
grew so distinct, as to thank me for having complied with the 
request of her letter : " 'Tis an office of unmerited kindness, 
which," said she (and I could observe her let fall a tear), " will 
be the last your unwearied friendship for me will have to be- 
stow." I answered, that I hoped not. "Ah! Mrs. Wistanly," 
she replied, " can you hope so 1 you are not my friend if you 
do." I wished to avoid a subject which her mind was little 
able to bear, and therefore made no other return than by kissing 
her hand, which she had stretched out to me as she spoke. 

At that moment we heard some unusual stir below stairs, 
and, as the floor was thin and ill laid, the word child was very 
distinctly audible from every tongue. Upon this she started up 
in her bed, and with a look piteous and wild beyond description, 
exclaimed, " Oh ! my God ! what of my child 1" — She had 
scarcely uttered the words, when the landlady entered the room, 
and showed sufficiently by her countenance that she had some 
dreadful tale to tell. By signs I begged her to be silent. — 
"What is become of my infant ?" cried Harriet, — "No ill, mad- 
am," answered the woman, faltering, " is come to it, I hope." 
" Speak," said she, " I charge you, for I will know the worst : 
speak, as you would give peace to my departing soul !" spring- 
ing out of bed, and grasping the woman's hands with all her 
force. It was not easy to resist so solemn a charge. — "Alas !" 
said the landlady, "I fear she is drowned ; for the nurse's cloak 
and the child's wrapper have been found in some ooze which 
the river had carried down below the ford." — She let go the 
woman's hands, and wringing her own together, threw up her 
eyes to heaven, till their sight was lost in the sockets. — We 
were supporting her, each of us holding one of her arms. — She 
fell on her knees between us, and dropping her hands for a 
moment, then raising them again, uttered with a voice, that 
sounded hollow, as if sunk within her : 

" Power Omnipotent ! who wilt not lay on thy creatures 
calamity beyond their strength to bear ! if thou hast not yet 
punished me enough, continue to pour out the phials of thy 
wrath upon me, and enable me to support what thou inflictest ! 
But if my faults are expiated, suffer me to rest in peace, and 
graciously blot out the offences which thy judgments have 
punished here !" — She continued in the same posture for a 
few moments ; then, leaning on us as if she meant to rise, bent 
her head forward, and drawing her breath strongly, expired in 
our arms. 



272 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

Such was the conclusion of Mrs. Wistanly's tale of wo ! 

Spirits of gentleness and peace ! who look with such pity as 
angels feel, on the distresses of mortality ! often have ye seen 
me laboring under the afflictions which Providence had laid 
upon me. Ye have seen me in a strange land, without friend, 
and without comforter, poor, sick, and naked ; ye have seen 
me shivering over the last faggot which my last farthing had 
purchased, moistening the crust that supported nature with the 
tears which her miseries shed on it ! yet have ye seen me look 
inward with a smile and overcome them. If such shall ever be 
my lot again, so let me alleviate its sorrows ; let me creep to 
my bed of straw in peace after blessing God that I am not a 
Man of the World. 



END OF PART FIRST. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

IN TWO PARTS. 



VIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE CANTO. Horace. 



PART II. 



INTRODUCTION 



x was born to a life of wandering, yet my heart was ever at 
home ! though the country that gave me birth gave me but few 
friends, and of those few the greatest part were early lost, yet 
the remembrance of her was present with me in every clime to 
which my fate conducted me ; and the idea of those, whose 
ashes repose in that humble spot, were they had often been the 
companions of my infant sports, hallowed it in my imagination, 
with a sort of sacred enthusiasm. 

I had not been many weeks an inhabitant of my native vil- 
lage, after that visit to the lady mentioned in the first part, 
which procured me the information, I have there laid before 
my readers, till I found myself once more obliged to quit it for 
a foreign country. My parting with Mrs. Wistanly was more 
solemn and affecting than common souls will easily imagine it 
could have been, upon an acquaintance, accidental in its be- 
ginning, and short in its duration ; but there was something 
tender and melancholy in the cause of it, which gave an impres- 
sion to our thoughts of one another, more sympathetic, perhaps, 
than what a series of mutual obligations could have effected. 

Before we parted, I could not help asking the reason of her 
secrecy with regard to the story of Annesly and his daughter. 
In answer to this, she informed me, that besides the danger to 
which she exposed herself by setting up in opposition to a man, 
in the midst of whose dependants she proposed ending her days, 
she was doubtful if her story would be of any service to the 
memory of her friend ; that Camplin (as she supposed, by the 
direction of Sir Thomas Sindall, who was at that time abroad) 
had universally given out, that Miss Annesly's elopement was 
with an intention to be married to him ; on which footing, 
though a false one, the character of that young lady stood no 
worse than if the truth were divulged to those, most of whom 
wanted discernment, as well as candor, to make the distinctions 
which should enable them to do it justice. 



276 INTRODUCTION. 

Several years elapsed before I returned to that place, whence, 
it is probable, I shall migrate no more. My friend Mrs. Wis- 
tanly was one of the persons after whom I first inquired on my 
arrival. I found her subject to the common debility, but not to 
any of the acuter distresses of age ; with the same powers of 
reason, and the same complacency of temper, I had seen her 
before enjoy. " These," said she, " are the effects of temper- 
ance without austerity, and ease without indolence ; I have 
nothing now to do, but to live without the solicitude of life, and 
to die without the fear of dying." 

At one of our first interviews, I found her accompanied by 
a young lady, who besides a great share of what is universally 
allowed the name of beauty, had something in her appearance 
which calls forth the esteem of its beholders, without their paus- 
ing to account for it. It has sometimes deceived me, yet I am 
resolved to trust it to the last hour of my life ; at that time I gave 
it unlimited confidence, and I had spoken the young lady's eu- 
logium before I had looked five minutes in her face. 

Mrs. Wistanly repeated it to me after she was gone. "That 
is one of my children," said she, " for I adopt the children of 
virtue ; and she calls me her mother, because I am old, and she 
can cherish me." — " I could have sworn to her goodness," I re- 
plied, "without any information besides what her countenance 
afforded me." — " 'Tis a lovely one," said she, "and her mind 
is not flattered in its portrait. Though she is a member of a 
family with whom I have not much intercourse, yet she is a fre- 
quent visiter at my little dwelling ; her name is Sindall." — 
" Sindall !" I exclaimed. " Yes," said Mrs. Wistanly, " but 
she is not therefore the less amiable. Sir Thomas returned 
from abroad soon after you left this place ; but for several 
years he did not reside here, having made a purchase of an- 
other estate in a neighboring county, and busied himself, during 
that time, in superintending the improvement of it. When he 
returned hither, he brought this young lady, then a child, along 
with him, who, it seems, was left to his care by her father, a 
friend of Sir Thomas's, who died abroad ; and she has lived 
with his aunt, who keeps house for him, ever since that period." 

The mention of Sir Thomas Sindall naturally recalled to my 
mind the fate of the worthy, but unfortunate Annesly. Mrs. 
Wistanly told me, she had often been anxious in her inquiries 
about his son William, the only remaining branch of her friend's 
family ; but that neither she nor Mr. Rawlinson, with whom she 
had corresponded on the subject, had been able to procure any 
accounts of him ; whence they concluded, that he had died in 
the plantations, to which he was transported in pursuance of his 
mitigated sentence. 



INTRODUCTION. 277 

She further informed me, " that Sindall had shown some 
marks of contrition at the tragical issue of the scheme he had 
carried on against the daughter's innocence and the father's 
peace ; and to make some small atonement to the dead for the 
injuries he had done to the living, had caused a monument to 
be erected over their graves in the village churchyard, with an 
inscription, setting forth the piety of Annesly, and the virtues 
and beauty of Harriet. But whatever he might have felt at the 
time," continued she, " I fear the impression was not lasting." 

From the following chapters, containing some further partic- 
ulars of that gentleman's life, which my residence in his neigh- 
borhood, and my acquaintance with some of the persons imme- 
diately concerned in them, gave me an opportunity of learning, 
my readers will judge if Mrs. Wistanly's conclusion was a just 
one. 



24 



THE 

MAN OF THE WORLD 



PART II. 



CHAPTER I. 



Some account of the persons of whom Sir Thomas Sindall's family 
consisted. 

The baronet's family consisted, at this time, of his aunt, and 
the young lady mentioned in the introduction, together with a 
cousin of his, of the name of Bolton, who was considered as 
presumptive heir of the Sindall estate, and whose education had 
been superintended by Sir Thomas. 

This young gentleman had lately returned from the univer- 
sity, to which his kinsman had sent him. The expectations of 
his acquaintance were, as is usually the case, sanguine in his 
favor ; and, what is something less usual, they were not disap- 
pointed. Beside the stock of learning which his studies had 
acquired him, he possessed an elegance of manner, and a win- 
ning softness of deportment, which a college life does not often 
bestow, but proceeded in him, from a cause the least variable of 
any, a disposition instinctively benevolent, and an exquisite sen- 
sibility of heart. 

With all his virtues, however, he was a dependant on Sir Tho- 
mas Sindall ; and their exercise could only be indulged so far as 
his cousin gave them leave. Bolton's father, who had married 
a daughter of the Sindall family, had a considerable patrimony- 
left him by a parent, who had acquired it in the sure and common 
course of mercantile application. 

With this, and the dowry he received with his wife, he might 
have lived up to the limits of his utmost wish, if he had confined 
his wishes to what are commonly considered the blessings of 
life ; but, though he was not extravagant to spend, he was ruined 
by an avidity to gain. In short, he was of that order of men 
who are known by the name of projectors ; and wasted the 
means of present enjoyment in the pursuit of luxury to come. 



280 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

To himself, indeed, the loss was but small ; while his sub- 
stance was mouldering away by degrees, its value was annihi- 
lated in his expectations of the future ; and he died amidst the 
horrors of a prison, smiling at the prospect of ideal wealth and 
visionary grandeur. 

But with his family it was otherwise. His wife, who had 
often vainly endeavored to prevent, by her advice, t'le destruc- 
tive schemes of her husband, at last tamely yielded to her fate, 
and died soon after him of a broken heart, leaving an only son, 
the Bolton who is now introduced into my story. 

The distresses of his father had been always ridiculed by Sir 
Thomas Sindall, as proceeding from a degree of whim and mad- 
ness, which it would have been a weakness to pity : his aunt, 
Mrs. Selwyn, joined in the sentiment; perhaps it was really her 
own ; but, at any rate, she was apt to agree in opinion with her 
nephew Sir Thomas, and never had much regard for her sister 
Bolton, for some reasons no less just than common. In the first 
place, her sister was handsomer than she ; secondly, she was 
sooner married ; and, thirdly, she had been blessed with this pro- 
mising boy, while Mrs. Selwyn became a widow without having 
had a child. 

There appeared, then, but little prospect of protection to poor 
Bolton from this quarter; but, as he had no other relation in any 
degree of propinquity, a regard to decency prompted the baronet 
to admit the boy into his house. His situation, indeed, was 
none of the most agreeable ; but the happy dispositions which 
nature had given him, suited themselves to the harshness of his 
fortune ; and, in whatever society he was placed, he found him- 
self surrounded with friends. There was not a servant in the 
house, who would not risk the displeasure of their master or 
Mrs. Selwyn, to do some forbidden act of kindness to their 
little favorite, Harry Bolton. 

Sir Thomas himself, from some concurring accidents, had his 
notice attracted by the good qualities of the boy ; his indiffer- 
ence was conquered by degrees, and at last he began to take 
upon himself the charge of rearing him to manhood. There 
wanted only this to fix his attachment : benefits to those whom 
we set apart for our own management and assistance, have 
something so particular in their nature, that there is scarce a 
selfish passion which their exercise does not gratify. Yet I 
mean not to rob Sindall of the honor of his beneficence ; it shall 
no more want my praise, than it did the gratitude of Bolton. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 281 

CHAPTER II. 

Some further particulars of the persons mentioned in the foregoing chapter. 

Bolton, however, felt that uneasiness which will ever press 
upon an ingenuous mind along with the idea of dependance. 
He had therefore frequently hinted, though in terms of the utmost 
modesty, a desire to be put into some way of life that might give 
him an opportunity of launching forth into the world, and freeing 
his cousin from the incumbrance of a useless idler in his family. 

Sir Thomas had often made promises of indulging so laudable 
a desire ; but day after day elapsed without his putting any of 
them in execution. The truth was, that he had contracted a sort 
of paternal affection for Bolton, and found it a difficult matter to 
bring himself to the resolution of parting with him. 

He contented himself with employing the young man's genius 
and activity in the direction and superintendance of his country 
affairs ; he consulted him on plans for improving his estate, and 
entrusted him with the care of their execution; he associated him 
with himself in matters of difficult discussion as a magistrate ; 
and in the sports of the field, he was his constant companion. 

It was a long time before Mrs. Selwyn, from some of the rea- 
sons I have hinted, could look on Harry with a favorable eye. 
When Sir Thomas first began to take notice of him, she remon- 
strated the danger of spoiling boys by indulgence, and endea- 
vored to counterbalance the estimation of his good qualities, by 
the recital of little tales, which she now and then picked up 
against him. 

It was not till some time after his return from the university, 
that Henry began to gain ground in the lady's esteem. That 
attachment and deference to the softer sex, which, at a certain 
age, is habitual to ours, is reckoned effeminacy amongst boys, 
and fixes a stain upon their manhood. Before he went to the 
university, Harry was under this predicament ; but by the time 
of his return, he had attained the period of refinement, and 
showed his aunt all those trifling civilities, which it is the preroga- 
tive of the ladies to receive; and which Mrs. Selwyn was often 
more ready to demand, than some males of her acquaintance 
were to pay. In truth, it required a knowledge of many femi- 
nine qualities, which this lady doubtless possessed, to impress the 
mind with an idea of that courtesy which is due to the sex ; for 
her countenance was not expressive of much softness, the natu- 
ral strength of her features being commonly heightened by the 



282 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

assistance of snuff, and her conversation generally turning on 
points of controversy in religion and philosophy, which, requir- 
ing an extensive exertion of thought, are therefore, I presume, 
from the practice of the fair in general, no way favorable to the 
preservation or the improvement of beauty. 

It was, perhaps, from this very inclination for investigating 
truth, that Bolton drew an advantage in his approaches towards 
her esteem. As he was just returned from the seat of learning, 
where discussions of that sort are common, she naturally applied 
to him for assistance in her researches. By assistance, I mean 
opposition ; it being the quality of that desire after knowledge 
with which this lady was endued, to delight in nothing so much, 
as in having its own doctrines confronted with opposite ones, 
till they pummel and belabor one another without mercy ; the 
contest having an advantage peculiar to battles of this kind, that 
each party, far from being weakened by its exertion, commonly 
appears to have gained strength, as well as honor, from the 
rencounter. 

Bolton, indeed, did not possess quite so much of this quality 
as his antagonist, he could not, in common good breeding, 
refuse her challenge ; but he often maintained the conflict in a 
manner rather dastardly for a philosopher. He gave, however, 
full audience to the lady's arguments; and if he sometimes 
showed an unwillingness to reply, she considered it as a testi- 
mony of her power to silence. But she was generous in her 
victories. Whenever she conceived them completely obtained, 
she celebrated the powers of her adversary, and allowed him all 
that wisdom which retreats from the fortress it cannot defend. 

There was, perhaps, another reason, as forcible as that of 
obliging Mrs. Selwyn, or attaining the recondite principles of 
philosophy, which increased Bolton's willingness to indulge that 
lady, in becoming a party to her disquisitions. There was a 
spectatress of the combat, whose company might have been pur- 
chased at the expense of sitting to hear Aquinas himself dispute 

upon theology Miss Lucy Sindall. My readers have been 

acquainted, in the introduction, with my prepossession in her 
favor, and the character Mrs. Wistanly gave in justification of it. 
They were deceived by neither. With remarkable quickness of 
parts, and the liveliest temper, she possessed all that tenderness 
which is the chief ornament of the female character ; and, with 
a modesty that seemed to shrink from observation, she united an 
ease and a dignity that universally commanded it. Her vivacity 
only arose to be amiable ; no enemy could ever repeat her wit, 
and she had no friend who did not boast of her good-humor. 

I should first have described her person ; my readers will 
excuse it; it is not of such minds that I am most solicitous to 

24* 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 283 

observe the dwellings. I have hinted before, and I repeat it, 
that her's was such an one as no mind need be ashamed of. 

Such was the attendant of Mrs. Selwyn, whose company the 
good lady particularly required at those seasons, when she 
unveiled her knowledge in argument, or pointed her sagacity to 
instruction. She would often employ Bolton and Miss Lucy to 
read her select passages of books, when a weakness in her own 
sight made reading uneasy to her. The subjects were rarely of 
the entertaining kind, yet Harry never complained of their length. 
This she attributed to his opinion of their usefulness ; Lucy called 
it good nature ; he thought so himself at first; but he soon began 
to discover that it proceeded from some different cause ; for when 
Miss Lucy was, by any accident, away, he read with very little 
complacency. He never suspected it to be love; much less did 
Lucy ; they owned each other for friends ; and when Mrs. Sel- 
wyn used to call them children, Bolton would call Lucy sister ; 
yet he was often not displeased to remember, that she was not 
his sister indeed. 



CHAPTER III. 

A natural consequence of some particulars contained in the last. 

The state of the mind may be often disguised, even from the 
owner, when he means to inquire into it ; but a very trifle will 
throw it from its guard, and betray its situation, when a formal 
examination has failed to discover it. 

Bolton would often catch himself sighing when Miss Sindall 
was absent, and feel his cheeks glow at her approach ; he won- 
dered what it was that made him sigh and blush. 

He would sometimes take solitary walks, without knowing 
why he wandered out alone. He found something that pleased 
him in the melancholy of lonely recesses, and half-worn paths, 
and his day dreams commonly ended in some idea of Miss Sin- 
dall, though he meant nothing less than to think of such an 
object. 

He had strayed, in one of those excursions, about half a mile 
from the house, through a copse at the corner of the park, which 
opened into a little green amphitheatre, in the middle of which 
was a pool of water, formed by a rivulet that crept through the 
matted grass, till it fell into this basin by a gentle cascade. 

The sun was gleaming through the trees, which were pictured 



284 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

on the surface of the pool beneath ; and the silence of the scene 
was only interrupted by the murmurs of the waterfall, sometimes 
accompanied by the querulous note of the vvoodpigeons who 
inhabited the neighboring copse. 

Bolton seated himself on the bank, and listened to their dirge. 
It ceased ; for he had disturbed the sacred, solitary haunt. " I 
will give you some music in return," said he, " and drew from 
his pocket a small-piped flute, which he frequently carried with 
him in his evening walks, and serenaded the lonely shepherd re- 
turning from his fold. He played a little plaintive air which 
himself had composed ; he thought he had played it by chance ; 
but Miss Sindall had commanded it the day before ; the recol- 
lection of Miss Sindall accompanied the sound, and he had 
drawn her portrait listening to its close. 

She was indeed listening to its close ; for accident had point- 
ed her walk in the very same direction with Bolton's. She was 
just coming out of the wood, when she heard the soft notes of 
his flute ; they had something of fairy music in them that suited 
the scene, and she was irresistibly drawn nearer the place where 
he sat, though some wayward feeling arose, and whispered, that 
she should not approach it. Her feet were approaching it 
whether she would or no ; and she stood close by his side, while 
the last cadence was melting from his pipe. 

She repeated it after him with her voice. " Miss Sindall !" 
cried he, starting up with some emotion. " I know," said she, 
" you will be surprised to rind me here ; but I was enchanted 
hither by the sound of your flute. Pray touch that little melan- 
choly tune again." He began, but he played very ill. " You 
blow it," said she, " not so sweetly as before ; let me try what 
tone I can give it." — She put it to her mouth, but she wanted the 
skill to give it voice. — " There cannot be much art in it ;" — she 
tried it again — " and yet it will not speak at my bidding." — She 
looked steadfastly on the flute, holding her fingers on the stops ; 
her lips were red from the pressure, and her figure altogether so 
pastoral and innocent, that I do not believe the kisses with which 
the poet made Diana greet her sister huntresses, were ever more 
chaste than that which Bolton now stole from her by surprise. 

Her cheeks were crimson at this little violence of Harry's — 
" What do you mean, Mr. Bolton V 3 said she, dropping the flute 
to the ground. " Tis a forfeiture," he replied, stammering, and 
blushing excessively, " for attempting to blow my flute." — " I 
don't understand you," answered Lucy, and turned towards the 
house, with some marks of resentmeut on her countenance. 
Bolton was for some time riveted to the spot ; when he recov- 
ered the use of his feet, he ran after Miss Sindall, and gently 
laying hold of her hand, " I cannot bear your anger," said he, 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 285 

" though I own your displeasure is just ; but forgive, I entreat 
you, this unthinking offence of him, whose respect is equal to his 
love." — " Your love, Mr. Bolton!" — " I cannot retract the word, 
though my heart has betrayed from me the prudence which 
might have stifled the declaration. I have not language, Miss 
Lucy, for the present feelings of my soul : till this moment I 
never knew how much I loved you, and never could I have ex- 
pressed it so ill." — He paused — she was looking fixedly on the 
ground, drawing her hand softly from his, which refused, invol- 
untarily, to quit its hold. — " May I not hope ?" said he, — " You 
have my pardon, Mr. Bolton"—" But" — " I beg you," said 
Lucy, interrupting him, " to leave this subject ; I know your 
merit, Mr. Bolton — my esteem — you have thrown me into such 
confusion — nay, let. go my hand." — " Pity, then, and forgive 
me." She sighed — he pressed her hand to his lips — she blush- 
ed, — and blushed in such a manner They have never been 

in Bolton's situation, by whom that sigh, and that blush, would 
not have been understood. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Bolton is separated from Miss Sindall. 

There was too much innocence in the breast of Lucy, to 
suffer it to be furnished with disguise. I mean not to throw any 
imputation on that female delicacy, which, as Milton expresses it, 

u — would be woo'd, and not unsought be won." 

This, in truth, cannot be called art, because nature has given it 
to all her females. Let it simply proceed from modesty, and it 
will never go too far ; but the affectation of it is ever the conse- 
quence of weakness in the head, or cruelty in the heart. 

I believe Miss Sindall to have been subject to neither ; she 
did not therefore assume the pride of indifference which she did 
not feel, to the attachment of so much worth as Bolton's ; and 
he had soon the happiness to find, that his affection, which every 
day increased, was not lavished without hope of a return. 

But he did not seem to be so fortunate, meanwhile, in the 
estimation of every person in the family : Sir Thomas Sindall 
had not of late shown that cordiality towards Bolton, with which 
he had been wont to favor him. As Harry was unconscious of 
any reason he could have given for it, this alteration in his cou- 



286 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

sin's behaviour was, for some time, altogether unnoticed by him : 
and, when at last he was forced to observe it, he attributed it to 
no particular cause, but considered it as merely the effect of 
some accidental and temporary chagrin : nor did he altogether 
change his opinion, even when Lucy suggested to him her fears 
on the subject, and entreated him to recollect, if he had, in any 
respect, disobliged his cousin, whose behaviour seemed to her to 
indicate some disgust conceived particularly against him. 

Not long after, the baronet informed his family of his intention 
of changing their place of residence, for some time, from Sindall 
park to his other estate, where, he said, he found his presence 
was become necessary ; and at the same time communicated to 
Bolton his desire, that he should remain behind, to superintend 
the execution of certain plans which he had laid down with re- 
gard to the management of some country business at the first 
mentioned place. Harry thought this sufficiently warranted his 
expressing a suspicion, that his company had not, of late, been 
so agreeable to Sir Thomas as it used to be, and begged to be 
informed in what particular he had offended him. " Offended 
me ! my dear boy," replied Sir Thomas ; " never in the least. — 
From what such an idea could have arisen, I know not : if from 
my leaving you here behind, when we go to Bilswood, it is the 
most mistaken one in the world : 'tis but for a few months, till 
those affairs I talked to you of are finished ; and I hope there to 
have opportunity of showing, that, in your absence, I shall be 
far from forgetting you." 

During the time of their stay at Sindall park, he behaved to 
Harry in so courteous and obliging a manner, that his suspicions 
were totally removed ; and he bore with less regret than he 
should otherwise have done, a separation from his Lucy, which 
he considered as temporary ; besides that his stay behind was 
necessary to him, whose countenance and friendship his attach- 
ment to that young lady had now rendered more valuable in 
his estimation. Love increases the list of our dependances ; I 
mean it not as an argument against the passion ; that sex, I 
trust, whose power it establishes, will point its vassals to no pur- 
suit but what is laudable. 

Their farewell scene passed on that very spot which I have 
described in the last chapter, as witness to the declaration of 

Bolton's passion. Their farewell but where the feelings 

say much, and the expression little, description will seldom suc- 
ceed in the picture. 

Their separation, however, was alleviated by the hope, that it 
was not likely to be of long continuance ; Sir Thomas's declara- 
tion, of his intending that Harry should follow them in a few 
months, was not forgotten ; and the intermediate days were 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 287 

swallowed up, in the anticipation of the pleasures which that 
period should produce. 

In the mean time, they took something from the pain of ab- 
sence by a punctual correspondence. These letters I have 
seen ; they describe things little in themselves ; to Bolton and 
Lucy they were no trifles, but by others their importance would 
not be understood. One recital only I have ventured to extract 
for the perusal of the reader ; because I observe, that it strongly 
Effected them, who, in this instance, were interested no more 
than any to whom the feelings it addresses are known ; and 
some of my readers, probably, have the advantange of not being 
altogether unacquainted with the persons of whom it speaks. 



CHAPTER V. 

An adventure of Miss Sindall's at Bilswood. 

To assume her semblance, is a tribute which Vice must often 
pay to Virtue. There are popular qualities which the world 
looks for, because it is aware, that it may be sometimes benefit- 
ed by their exertions. Generosity is an excellence, by the ap- 
parent possession of which, I have known many worthless 
characters buoyed up from their infamy ; though with them it 
was but thoughtless profusion : and on the other hand, I have 
seen amiable men marked out with a sneer by the million, from 
a temperance or reservedness of disposition, which shuns the 
glare of public, and the pleasures of convivial life, and gives to 
modesty and gentle manners the appearance of parsimony and 
meanness of spirit. 

The imputation of merit with mankind, Sindall knew to be a 
necessary appendage to his character ; he was careful, therefore, 
to omit no opportunity of stepping forth to their notice as a man 
of generosity. There was not a gentleman's servant in the 
county, who did not talk of the knight's munificence in the arti- 
cle of vails ; and a park keeper was thought a happy man, whom 
his master sent with a haunch of venison to Sir Thomas. Once 
a year, too, he feasted his tenants, and indeed the whole neigh- 
borhood, on the large lawn in the front of his house, where the 
strong beer ran cascadewise from the mouth of a leaden triton. 

But there were objects of compassion, whose relief would not 
have figured in the eye of the public, on whom he was not so 
remarkable for bestowing his liberality. The beggars, he com- 



288 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

plained, were perpetually stealing his fruit, and destroying his 
shrubbery ,* he therefore kept a wolfdog to give them their an- 
swer at the gate ; and some poor families in the village on his 
estate had been brought to beggary by prosecutions for poach- 
ing, an offence which every country gentleman is bound, in 
honor, to punish with the utmost severity of the law ; and can- 
not, therefore, without a breach of that honor, alleviate by a 
weak and ill-judged exercise of benevolence. 

Miss Lucy, however, as she could not so strongly feel the 
offence, would sometimes contribute to lessen the rigor of its 
punishment, by making small presents to the wives and children 
of the delinquents. Passing, one evening, by the door of a cot- 
tage, where one of those pensioners on her bounty lived, she 
observed, standing before it, a very beautiful lapdog, with a 
collar and bell, ornamented much beyond the trappings of any 
animal that could belong to the house. From this circumstance 
her curiosity was excited to enter, when she was not a little 
surprised to find a young lady in a most elegant undress, sitting 
on a jointstool by the fire, with one of the children of the family 
on her lap. The ladies expressed mutual astonishment in their 
countenances at this meeting, when the good woman of the 
house, running up to them, and clasping a hand of each in her's, 
" Blessings," said she, " thousands of blessings on you both ! a 
lovelier couple, or a better, my eyes never looked on." — The 

infant clapped its hands as if instinctively. " Dear heart !" 

continued its mother, " look, if my Tommy be not thanking you 
too ! well may he clap his hands : if it had not been for your 
gracious selves, by this time his hands would have been cold 
clay ! (mumbling his fingers in her mouth, and bathing his arms 
with her tears ;) when you strictly forbade me to tell mortal of 
your favors, Oh ! how I longed to let each of you know, that 
there was another lady in the world as good as herself." 

The stranger had now recovered herself enough to tell Miss 
Lucy, how much it delighted her to find, that a young lady of 
her figure did not disdain to visit affliction, even amongst the 
poor and the lowly. " That reflection," answered the other, 
" applies more strongly to the lady who makes it, than to her 
who is the occasion of its being made. I have not, madam, the 
honor of your acquaintance ,* but methinks, pardon my boldness, 
that I feel as if we were not strangers ; at least I am sure that 
I should reckon it a piece of singular good fortune, if this inter- 
view could entitle me to call you stranger no longer." Their 
landlady cried and laughed by turns ; and her two guests were 
so much pleased with this meeting, that they appointed a renewal 
of it, at an hour somewhat earlier of the subsequent evening. 

Lucy came a few minutes before the time of appointment ; 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 289 

when she learned, that the stranger was the daughter of a neigh- 
boring gentleman, whom a difference of disposition from that of 
Sir Thomas Sindall, arising at last to a particular coolness, had 
entirely estranged for many years from the baronet, and prevent- 
ed all intercourse between the families. 

When this lady arrived, she brought such tidings along with 
her, that I question, if in all the sumptuous abodes of wealth 
and grandeur, there was to be found so much sincerity of joy, 
as within the ragged and mouldering walls of the hovel which 
she graced with her presence. She informed the grateful mis- 
tress of it, that by her intercession with some justice of the 
peace, who made part of the judicature before whom the poor 
woman's husband was brought, his punishment had been mitiga- 
ted to a small fine, which she had undertaken to pay, and that he 
would very soon be on his way homewards. The joy of the poor 
man's family at this intelligence was such as they could not, nor 
shall I, attempt to express. His deliverance was indeed unex- 
pected, because his crime was great : no less than that of having 
set a gin in his garden, for some cats that used to prey on a 
single brood of chickens, his only property ; which gin had, 
one night, wickedly and maliciously hanged a hare, which the 
baronet's gamekeeper next morning discovered in it. 

His wife and little ones seemed only to be restrained by the 
respected presence of their guests, from running out to meet a 
husband and a father restored to them from captivity. The 
ladies observing it, encouraged them in the design ; and having 
received the good woman's benediction on her knees, they walk- 
ed out together ; and leaving the happy family on the road to the 
prison, turned down a winding romantic walk, that followed the 
mazes of a rill, in an opposite direction. 

Lucy, whose eyes had been fixed with respectful attention on 
her fair companion, ever since her arrival at the cottage, now 
dropped a tear from each. " You will not wonder at these tears, 
madam," said she, " when you know that they are my common 
sign of joy and admiration ; they thank you on behalf of myself 
and my sex, whose peculiar beauty consists in those gentle vir- 
tues you so eminently possess ; my heart feels not only plea- 
sure, but pride, in an instance of female worth so exalted. 
Though the family in which I live, from some cause unknown 
to me, have not the happiness of an intercourse with yours, yet 
your name is familiar to my ear, and carries with it the idea of 
every amiable and engaging quality." — " Nor am I," returned 
the other, " a stranger to the name, or the worth of Miss Sindall, 
and I reckon myself singularly fortunate, not only to have acci- 
dentally made an acquaintance with her, but to have made it in 
that very style, which effectually secures the esteem her charac- 

25 



290 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

ter had formerly impressed me with." " Beneficence, indeed," 
replied Lucy, " is a virtue, of which the possession may entitle 
to an acquaintance with one to whom that virtue is so particu- 
larly known." " It is no less a pleasure than a duty," rejoined 
her companion ; " but I, Miss Sindall, have an additional incite- 
ment to the exercise of it, which, perhaps, as the tongue of curi- 
osity is at one time as busy as its ear is attentive at another, you 
may ere this have heard of. That ancient building, to which the 
walk we are on will in a few minutes conduct us, was formerly in 
the possession of one, in whose bosom resided every gentle ex- 
cellence that adorns humanity ; he, Miss Sindall, — why should 
I blush to tell it 1 — in the sordid calculation of the world, his at- 
tachment was not enviable ; the remembrance of it, though it 
wrings my heart with sorrow, is yet my pride and my delight ! 
your feelings, Miss Lucy, will understand this — the dear youth 
left me executrix of that philanthropy which death alone could 
stop in its course. To discharge this trust, is the business of 
my life ; for I hold myself bound to discharge it." 

They had now reached the end of the walk, where it opened 
into a little circle surrounded with trees, and fenced by a rail, in 
front of an antique looking house, the gate of which was orna- 
mented with a rudely sculptured crest, cyphered round with the 
initials of some name, which time had rendered illegible ; but, 
a few paces before it, was placed a small urn, of modern work- 
manship, and, on a tablet beneath, was written, 

TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

WILLIAM HARLEY. 

Lucy stepped up to read this inscription : " Harley !" said she, 
" how I blush to think that I have scarcely ever heard of the 
name !" — " Alas !" said Miss Walton, " his actions were not 
of a kind that is loudly talked of : but what is the fame of the 
world ? by him its voice could not now be heard !" — -There was 
an ardent earnestness in her look, even amidst the melancholy 
with which her countenance was impressed. " There is a blank 
at the bottom of the tablet," said Lucy : her companion smiled 
gloomily at the observation, and, leaning on the urn in a pensive 
attitude, replied, " that it should one day be filled up." 

They now heard the tread of feet approaching the place : 
Lucy was somewhat alarmed at the sound ; but her fears were 
removed, when she discovered it to proceed from a venerable 
old man, who, advancing towards them, accosted Miss Walton 
by her name, who, in her turn, pronounced the word Peter ! in 



THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 291 

the lone of surprise. She stretched out her hand, which he 
clasped in his, and looked in her face with a certain piteous 
wistfulness, while a tear was swelling in his eye. " My dear 
lady," said he, " I have travelled many a mile since I saw your 
ladyship last : by God's blessing I have succeeded very well in 
the business your ladyship helped me to set up ; and having 
some dealings with a tradesman in London, I have been as far 
as that city and back again ; and, said I to myself, if I could 
venture on such a journey for the sake of gain, may I not take 
a shorter for the sake of thanking my benefactress, and seeing 
my old friends in the country 1 and I had a sort of yearning to 
be here, to remember good Mrs. Margery, and my dear young 

master. God forgive me for weeping, for he was too good 

for this world !" The tears of Miss Walton and Lucy ac- 
companied his. — " Alack-a-day !" continued Peter, " to think 
how things will come to pass ! that there tree was planted by 
his own sweet hand ! — I remember it well, he was then but a 
boy ; I stood behind him, holding the plants in my apron thus ; 
— * Peter,' said he, as he took one to stick it in the ground, 
* perhaps I shall not live to see this grow !' — * God grant your 
honor may,' said I, * when I am dead and gone !' and I lifted 
up the apron to my eyes, for my heart grew big at his words ; 
but he smiled in my face, and said, ' We shall both live, Peter, 

and that will be best.' 'Ah! I little thought then, Miss 

Walton, I little thought!' — and he shook his thin gray locks ! 
' — the heart of apathy itself could not have withstood it ; Miss 
Walton's and Lucy's, melting and tender at all times, were 
quite overcome. 

They stood some time silent; Miss Walton at last recollected 
herself: "Pardon me, Miss Sindall," said she, "I was lost in 
the indulgence of my grief: let us leave this solemn scene, I 
have no right to tax you with my sorrows." " Call not their 
participation by that name," answered Lucy, •* I know the 
sacredness of sorrow ; yours are such as strengthen the soul 
while they melt it." 



292 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

CHAPTER VI. 

A change in Bolton's situation. 

The reader will pardon the digression I have made ; I would 
not, willingly, lead him out of his way, except into some path, 
where his feelings may be expanded, and his heart improved. 

He will remember, that I mentioned, in the fourth chapter, 
the expectation which Bolton entertained, of seeing his Lucy at 
a period not very remote. But that period was not destined to 
arrive so soon. When he expected Sir Thomas's commands, or 
rather his permission, to visit the family at Bilswood, he receiv- 
ed a letter from that gentleman, purporting, that he had at last 
been able to put him in the way of attaining that independence 
he had so often wished for, having just procured him a commis- 
sion in a regiment then stationed at Gibraltar ; that though he, 
(Sir Thomas,) as well as Mrs. Selwyn and Lucy, was exceed- 
ingly desirous of having an opportunity of bidding him farewell, 
yet he had prevailed on himself to waive that pleasure, from the 
consideration of its inconvenience to Harry, as it was absolutely 
necessary that he should join his regiment immediately. He in- 
closed letters of introduction to several gentlemen of his ac- 
quaintance in London, remitted him drafts on that place for 
a considerable sum, to fit him out for his intended expedition, 
and begged that he might lose no time in repairing thither for 
that purpose. He ended with assuring him of the continuance 
of his friendship, which, he declared, no distance of time or place 
could alienate or impair. 

The effect which this letter had upon Bolton, as he was then 
circumstanced, my readers can easily imagine. There was an- 
other accompanied it — a note from his Lucy; she intended it 
for comfort, for it assumed the language of consolation ; but the 
depression of her own spirits was visible, amidst the hopes with 
which she meant to buoy up those of Bolton. 

With this letter for its text, did his imagination run over all the 
delights of the past, and compare them with the disappointment 
of the present. Yet those tender regrets which the better part 
of our nature feels, have something in them to blunt the edge of 
that pain they inflict, and confer on the votaries of sorrow a sen- 
sation that borders on pleasure. He visited the walks which his 
Lucy had trod, the trees under which he had sat, the prospects 
they had marked together, and he would not have exchanged his 
feelings for all that luxury could give, or festivity inspire. Nor 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 293 

did he part with the idea after the object was removed ; but, even 
on the road to London, to which place he began his journey next 
morning, 'twas but pulling out his letter again, humming over 
that little melancholy air which his Lucy had praised, and the 
scene was present at once. It drew indeed a sigh from his 
bosom, and an unmanly tear stood in his eye ; yet the sigh and 
the tear were such, that it was impossible to wish it removed. 



CHAPTER VII. 

His arrival, and situation in London. 

When Bolton reached the metropolis, he applied without delay, 
to those persons for whom he had letters from Sir Thomas Sin- 
dall, whose instructions the baronet had directed him to follow, 
in that course of military duty which he had now enabled him to 
pursue. 

In the reception he met with, it is not surprising that he was 
disappointed. He looked for that cordial friendship, that warm 
attachment, which is only to be found in the smaller circles of 
private life, which is lost in the bustle and extended connexion 
of large societies. The letters he presented were read with a 
civil indifference, and produced the unmeaning professions of 
ceremony and politeness. From some of those to whom they 
were addressed, he had invitations, which he accepted with dim> 
dence, to feasts which he partook with disgust ; where he sat, 
amidst the profusion of ostentatious wealth, surrounded with 
company he did not know, and listening to discourse in which 
he was not qualified to join. 

A plain honest tradesman, to whom he happened to carry a 
commission from Mrs. Wistanly, was the only person who 
seemed to take an interest in his welfare. At this man's house 
he received the welcome of a favored acquaintance : he eat of 
the family dinner, and heard the jest which rose for their amuse- 
ment ; for ceremony did not regulate the figure of their table, nor 
had fashion banished the language of nature from their lips. 
Under this man's guidance, he transacted any little business his 
situation required, and was frequently conducted by him to those 
very doors, whose lordly owners received him in that manner, 
which grandeur thinks itself entitled to assume, and dependance 
is constrained to endure. 

After some days of inquiry and solicitude, he learned, that it 
25* 



294 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

was not necessary for him to join his regiment so speedily as Sif 
Thomas's letter had induced him to believe. 

Upon obtaining this information, he immediately communi- 
cated it to the baronet, and signified at the same time, a desire 
of improving that time, which this respite allowed him for his stay 
in England, in a visit to the family at Bilswood. But with 
this purpose his cousin's ideas did not at all coincide ; he wrote 
Harry an answer, disapproving entirely his intentions of leaving 
London, and laid down a plan for his improvement in military 
science, which could oniy be followed in the metropolis. Here 
was another disappointment ; but Harry considered it his duty to 
obey. What he felt, however, may be gathered from the follow- 
ing letter which he wrote to Miss Sindall, by the post succeed- 
ing that which brought him the instructions of Sir Thomas. 

" As I found, soon after my arrival here, that the necessity of 
joining my regiment immediately was superseded, I hoped, by 
this time, to have informed my dearest Lucy, of my intended 
departure from London, to be once more restored to her and the 
country. 

" I have suffered the mortification of another disappointment : 
Sir Thomas's letter is now before me, which fixes me here for 
the winter ; I confess the reasonableness of his opinion ; but 
reason and Sir Thomas cannot feel like Bolton. 

" When we parted last, we flattered ourselves with our pros- 
pects ; cruel as the reflection is, I feel a sort of pleasure in 
recalling it ; especially when I ventured to believe, that my 
Lucy had not forgotten our parting. 

" To-morrow is Christmas day ; I call to remembrance our 
last year's holidays ; may these be as happy with you, though I 
am not to partake them. Write me every particular of these 
days of jollity ; fear not, as your last letter expresses it, tiring 
me with trifles ; nothing is a trifle in which you are concerned. 
While I read the account, I will fancy myself at Bilswood : here 
I will walk forth, an unnoticed thing amidst the busy crowd that 
surrounds me : your letters give me some interest in myself, 
because they show me that I am something to my Lucy ; she is 
every thing to her Bolton, 55 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 295 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Filial piety. 

Bolton had a disposition towards society, that did not allow 
him an indifference about any thing of human form with whom 
he could have an opportunity of intercourse. He was every 
one's friend in his heart, till some positive demerit rendered a 
person unworthy his good will. He had not long possessed his 
lodgings in town, till he cultivated an acquaintance with his 
landlord and landlady : the latter he found to be the representa- 
tive of the family, from a power of loquacity very much superior 
to her husband, who seemed to be wonderfully pleased with his 
wife's conversation, and very happy under what might, not im- 
properly, be termed her government. 

To Mrs. Terwitt, therefore, (for that was the lady's name), 
did Bolton address his approaches towards an acquaintance, and 
from her he had the good fortune to find them meet with a 
favorable reception : They were so intimate the second week of 
his residence in the house, that she told him the best part of the 
transactions of her life, and consulted him upon the disposal of 
her eldest daughter in marriage, whom a young tradesman, she 
said, had been in suit of ever since the Easter holidays preced- 
ing. " We can give her," added she, " something handsome 
enough for a portion ; and the old gentleman above stairs has 
promised her a present of a hundred pounds on her wedding day, 
provided she marries to please him." 

" The gentleman above stairs !" said Bolton ; " how have I 
been so unlucky as never to have heard of him before ?" " He 
is not at present in town," replied the landlady, "having gone 
about a fortnight ago to Bath, whence he is not yet returned. 
Indeed, I fear, his health requires some stay at that place, for he 
has been but poorly of late : Heaven preserve his life! for he is 
a good friend of ours, and of many one's else, who stand in need 
of his friendship. He has an estate, Sir, of a thousand pounds 
a year, and money besides, as I have been told ; yet he chooses 
to live private, as you will see ; and spends, I believe, the most 
of his income in charitable actions." 

"I did indeed," said Harry, " observe a young man come to 
the door this morning at an early hour, and I heard him ask if 
the gentleman was returned ; but I did not then know that he 
meant any person who lodged here." " Ay, sure enough he 
meant Mr. Ilawlinson," said Mrs. Terwitt, " and I wish he may 



296 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

not feel his absence much ; for he has called here frequently of 
late, and, the last time, when he was told of his not being yet re- 
turned, Betty observed that the tears gushed from his eyes." 
1 When he calls again," said Bolton, " I beg that I may be in- 
formed of it." 

Next morning he heard somebody knock at the door, much 
•about the time he had seen the young man approach it the pre- 
ceding day : upon going to the window, he observed the same 
stripling, but his dress was different ; he had no coat to cover a 
threadbare waistcoat, nor had he any hat. Bolton let the maid 
know, that he was aware of his being at the door, and resumed 
his own station at the window. The youth repeated his inqui- 
ries after Mr. Rawlinson, and, upon receiving the same answer, 
cast up to heaven a look of resignation, and retired. 

Bolton slipped down stairs and followed him ; his lodgings 
were situated near Queen square ; the lad took the country road, 
and went on without stopping till he reached Pancras church- 
yard. He stood seemingly entranced, over a new covered grave 
at one end of it. Harry placed himself under cover of a tomb 
hard by, where he could mark him unperceived. 

He held his hands clasped in one another, and the tears began 
to trickle down his cheeks. Bolton stole from out his hiding 
place, and approached towards the spot. The poor lad began 
to speak, as if addressing himself to the dead beneath. 

" Thou canst not feel their cruelty ; nor shall the winds of 
winter chill thee as they do thy wretched son; inhuman mis- 
creants ; but these shall cover thee." — He threw himself on the 
ground, and spread his arms over the grave, on which he wept. 

Bolton stooped down to raise him from the earth; he turned, 
and gazed on him, with a look 'wildered and piteous. " Par- 
don a stranger, young man," said Bolton, " who cannot but be 
interested in your sorrow; he is not entitled to ask its cause, yet 
his heart swells with the hope of removing it." — " May Heaven 
requite you," replied the stranger, "for your pity to a poor or- 
phan ! Oh! Sir, I have not been used to beg, and even to receive 
charity is hard upon me; did I mean to move compassion, I 
have a story to tell. You weep already, Sir ! hear me, and judge 
if I deserve your tears. 

"Here lies my father, the only relation whom misfortune had 
left to own me ; but Heaven had sent us a friend in that best of 
men, Mr. Rawlinson. He came accidentally to the knowledge 
of our sufferings, and took on himself the charge of relieving 
them, which the cruelty of our own connexions had abandoned ! 
but, alas ! when, by his assistance, my father was put into a way 
of earning his bread, he was seized with that illness of which he 
died. Some small debts, which his short time in business had 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 297 

not yet allowed him to discharge, were put in suit against him 
by his creditors. His sickness and death, which happened a few 
days ago, did but hasten their proceedings ; they seized, Sir, the 
very covering of that bed on which his body was laid. Mr. 
Rawlinson was out of town, and I fancy he never received those 
letters I wrote him to Bath. I had no one from whom to expect 
relief; every thing but these rags on my back, I sold to bury the 
best of fathers ; but my little all was not enough ! and the man 
whom I employed for his funeral, took, yesterday, from off these 
clods, the very sod which had covered him, because I had not 
wherewithal to pay its price." Bolton fell on his neck, and 
answered him with his tears. 

He covered the dust of the father, and clothed the nakedness 
of the son ; and having placed him where it was in his power to 
make future inquiries after his situation, left him to bless Pro- 
vidence for the aid it had sent, without knowing the hand through 
which its bounty had flowed. That hand, indeed, the grateful 
youth pressed to his lips at parting, and begged earnestly to 
know the name of his benefactor. " I am a friend," said Bol- 
ton, m of Mr. Rawlinson, and humanity." 



CHAPTER IX, 

A very alarming accident ; which proves the means of Bolton's getting 
acquainted with his fellow lodger. 

When Bolton returned, in the evening, from those labors of 
charity he had undertaken, he found that the family were abroad, 
supping, in a body, with the daughter's lover : the maid sat up 
to wait their home coming ; and Bolton, who had more liberty, 
but much less inclination to sleep, betook himself to meditation. 

It was now near midnight, and the hum of Betty's spinning- 
wheel, which had frequently intermitted before, became entirely 
silent, when Bolton was alarmed with a very loud knocking of 
the watchmen at the door, and presently a confused assemblage 
of voices crying out, " Fire ! Fire !" echoed from one end of 
the street to the other. Upon opening his window, he discover- 
ed too plainly the reason of the alarm : the flames were already 
appearing at the windows of the ground floor, to which they had 
probably been communicated by the candle, which the maid had 
burning by her in the kitchen below. 

She had now at last awakened, and was running about before 



298 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

the door of the house, wringing her hands, and speaking inco- 
herently to the few who were assembled by the outcry, without 
having recollection enough to endeavor to save any thing belong- 
ing tc herself or her master. 

Bolton, who had more the possession of his faculties, entreat- 
ing the assistance of some watchmen, whom the occasion had 
drawn together, made shift to convey into the street, a few things 
which he took to be the most valuable ; desiring Betty to be so 
much mistress of herself, as to keep an eye upon them for her 
master's benefit. She continued, however, her broken excla- 
mations of horror and despair, till, at last starting as it were into 
the remembrance of something forgot, she cried out vehemently, 
44 Oh ! my God ! where is Mr. Rawlinson \" 

Bolton caught the horrid meaning of her question, and pushing 
through the flames which had now taken hold of the staircase, 
forced his way into the bedchamber occupied by the old gentle- 
man, who had returned from the country that very evening, and, 
being fatigued with his journey, had gone to bed before his fel- 
low lodger's arrival at home. 

He had not waked till the room under that where he lay was 
in a blaze, and, on attempting to rise, was stifled with the smoke 
that poured in at every cranny of the floor, and fell senseless at 
his bedside, where Bolton found him upon entering the room. 

On endeavoring to carry him down stairs, he found it had now 
become impracticable, several of the steps having been quite 
burnt away, and fallen down in flaming brands, since the mo- 
ment before, when he had ascended. He had presence of mind 
enough left to observe, that the back part of the house was not 
so immediately affected by the flames ; he carried Mr. Rawlin- 
son therefore into a room on that side, and, having beat out the 
sash, admitting air enough to revive him. The latter presently 
recollected his situation, and asking Harry, if it was possible to 
get down stairs, heard him answer in the negative with remark- 
able composure. " As for me," said he, " I shall lose but few 
of my days ; but I fear, Sir, your generous concern for a stran- 
ger, has endangered a life much more valuable than mine : let 
me beg of you to endeavor to save yourself, which your strength 
and agility may enable you to do, without regarding a poor 
worn-out, old man, who would only encumber you in the at- 
tempt." Bolton, with a solemn earnestness, declared, that no 
consideration should tempt him to such a desertion. 

He had, before this, vainly endeavored to procure a ladder, 
or some other assistance, from the people below ; the confusion 
of the scene prevented their affording it ; he considered, there- 
fore, if he could not furnish some expedient from within, and 
having united the cordage of a bed, which stood in the room, he 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 299 

found it would make a sufficient length of rope to reach within a 
few feet of the ground. This he fastened round Mr. Rawlin- 
son's waist, in such a way that his arms should support part of 
the weight of his body, and sliding it over the edge of the win- 
dow, so as to cause somewhat more resistance in the descent, 
he let him down, in that manner, till he was within reach of some 
assistance below, who caught him in their arms ; then fastening 
the end of the rope round the post of the bed, he slid so far down 
upon it himself, that he could safely leap to the ground. 

He conveyed Mr. Rawlinson to other lodgings hard by, which 
then happened to be vacant ; and having got him accommodated 
with some clothes belonging to the landlord, he returned to see 
what progress the fire had been making, when he found, that, 
happily, from a piece of waste ground's lying between the house 
where it broke out, and the other to the leeward, it was got so 
much under, as to be in no danger of spreading any further. 

Upon going back to Mr. Rawlinson, he found him sitting in 
the midst of the family with whom he had lodged, ministering 
comfort to their distresses ; the unfortunate Betty, whom, as 
she stood self-condemned for her neglect, he considered as the 
greatest sufferer, he had placed next him. " You shall not," 
said he, addressing himself to the old folks, " interrupt the hap- 
piness of my friend Nancy or her lover here, with wailing your 
misfortune, or chiding of Betty. I will become bound to make 
up all your losses, provided your good-humor is not of the 
number. 

" But who," continued the old gentleman, " shall reward Mr. 
Bolton for the service he has done us all?" " May Heaven 
reward him !" cried Mrs. Terwitt, and all her audience answer- 
ed, Amen ! " You pray well," said Mr. Rawlinson, " and your 
petition is heard ; on him, to whom the disposition of benevo- 
lence is given, its recompense is already bestowed." 



CHAPTER X. 

Effects of his acquaintance with Mr. Rawlinson. 

Such was Bolton's introduction to Mr. Ravvlinson's acquaint- 
ance ; and from the circumstance of its commencement, my 
readers will easily believe, that neither party could be indifferent 
to its continuation. Rawlinson saw his own virtues warm and ac- 
tive in the bosom of his young friend ; while Harry contemplated 



300 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

with equal delight, that serenity which their recollection bestow- 
ed on the declining age of Rawlinson. 

In one of his visits to the old gentleman, some time after the 
accident related in the foregoing chapter, he found with him that 
very youth, whose sorrow, over the grave of his father, he had 
so lately been the means of alleviating. The young man was, 
indeed, in the midst of their recital as Bolton entered the room, 
and had just mentioned with regret his ignorance of his bene- 
factor, when the door opened and discovered him. Bolton could 
not help blushing at the discovery ; the other, starting from his 
seat, exclaimed, "It is be, it is himself!" threw himself on his 
knees before Harry, with tears in his eyes, and poured out some 
broken expressions of the warmest gratitude. " It was you 
then,'' said Mr. Rawlinson, " who were the comforter of my 
poor boy, who covered the grave of his unfortunate father ! I 
will not thank you, for Jack is doing it better with his tears ; but 
I will thank Heaven, that there are some such men to preserve 
my veneration for the species." " I trust, my dear Sir," said 
Bolton, " there are many to whom such actions are habitual." — 
" You are a young man," interrupted the other, " and it is fit 
you should believe so ; I will believe so too, for I have some- 
times known what it is to enjoy them. — Go, my boy," turning 
to the lad, " and wish for the luxury of doing good ; remember 
Mr. Bolton, and be not forgetful of Providence." 

" The father of that young man," said Mr. Rawlinson, when 
he was gone, " was a school-fellow of mine here in town, and 
one of the worthiest creatures in the world ; but, from a milki- 
ness of disposition, without the direction of prudence, or the 
guard of suspicion, he suffered himself to become a dupe to the 
artifices of some designing men ; and when, some time ago, I 
discovered his place of abode in an obscure village in the coun- 
try, I found him stripped of his patrimony, and burthened with 
the charge of that boy, who has just now left us, whose mother, 
it seems, had died when he was a child. Yet, amidst the dis- 
tresses of his poverty, I found that easiness of temper which had 
contributed to bring them on, had not forsaken him ; he met 
with a smile of satisfaction, and talked of the cruel indifference 
of some wealthy relations, without the emotions of anger, or the 
acrimony of disappointment. He seemed, indeed, to feel for 
his child ; but comforted himself at the same time with the re- 
flection that he had bred him to expect adversity with compo- 
sure, and to suffer poverty with contentment. He died, poor 
man, when I had put him in a way of living with some comfort ; 
nor had I even an opportunity of doing the common offices of 
friendship to his last moments, my health having obliged me to 
go down to Bath, whence I had removed to Bristol, and did not 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 301 

receive any account of his illness till my return to London. I 
am in your debt, Mr. Bolton, for some supplies to his son ; let 
me know what those were, that we may clear the account." 
Bolton replied, that he hoped Mr. Rawlinson could not wish to 
deprive him of the pleasure he felt from the reflection of having 
assisted so much filial piety in distress. " It shall be in your 
own way," said the old gentleman ; "lam not such a niggard 
as to grudge you the opportunity ; yet I cannot but regret my 
absence, when I should have closed the eyes of poor Jennings. 
He was the last of those companions of my childhood, whose 
history in life I had occasion to be acquainted with ; the rest, 
Mr. Bolton, had already fallen around me, and I am now left 
within a little of the grave, without a friend (except one, to whom 
accident has acquired me in you,) to smooth the path that leads 
to it ; but that is short, and therefore it matters not much. At 
my age, nature herself may be expected to decline ; but a lin- 
gering illness is shortening her date. I would do, therefore, 
what good I can, in the space that is left me, and look forward, 
if I may be allowed, to make some provision for the service 
of futurity. Here are two papers, Sir, which, on mature delib- 
eration, I have judged it proper to commit to your custody ; that 
in the parchment cover, which is not labelled, my death alone 
will authorize you to open ; the other marked, ' trust deed by 
Mr. Annesly,' I can explain to you now. That man, Mr. Bol- 
ton, who is now a saint in heaven, was prepared for it by the 
severest calamities on earth : the guilt and misfortune of two 
darling children, cut short the remnant of a life, whose business 
it was to guide, and whose pleasure to behold them in the paths 
of virtue and of happiness. At the time of his death they were 
both alive ; one, alas ! did not long survive her father ; what 
has become of her brother, I have never been able to learn ;. 
but this trust put in my hands in their behalf, may still be of im- 
portance to him or his, and to you therefore I make it over for 
that purpose ; for though, by Mr. Annesly's settlement, the sub- 
ject of trust accrues to me on the failure of his own issue, yet 
would I never consider it as mine, while the smallest chance 
remained of his son, or the descendants of his son, surviving ; 
and even were the negative certain, I should then only look on 
myself as the steward of my friend, for purposes which his good- 
ness would have dictated, and it becomes his trustee to fulfil. 
In such a charge I will not instruct my executor ; I have been 
fortunate enough to find one whose heart will instruct him." 

Bolton, while he promised an execution of this trust, worthy 
of the confidence reposed in him, could not help expressing his 
surprise at Mr. Rawlinson's choice of him for that purpose. 
44 1 do not wonder," replied the oiher, " that you should think 

26 



302 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

thus, for thus has custom taught us to think ; I have told you 
how friendless and unconnected I am ; but while we trace the 
relatives of birth and kindred, shall we allow nothing to the ties 
of the heart, or the sympathy of virtue V 



CHAPTER XL 

A remarkable event in the history of Bolton— his behaviour in consequence 

of it. 

The provisions which Mr. Rawlinson had made, for an event 
of which he had accustomed himself to think with composure, 
were but too predictive of its arrival. That worthy man lived 
not many weeks after the conversation with Bolton which I 
have just recorded. Bolton was affected with the most lively 
sorrow for his death. This friendship, though but lately ac- 
quired, had something uncommonly ardent in its attachment, 
and liberal in its confidence. Harry, who had returned it in the 
most unreserved manner, felt the want both of that kindness 
which soothed, and that wisdom which instructed him. 

Upon opening the sealed paper which had been formerly put 
into his hands by Mr. Rawlinson, it was found to be that gen- 
tleman's will, devising his whole estate, real and personal, to 
Mr. Bolton. The reason given for this, in the body of the 
paper itself, was expressed in the following words : " Because 
I know no man who has deserved more of myself ; none who 
will deserve more of mankind, in the disposal of what I have 
thus bequeathed him." 

Bolton was fully sensible of the force of this recommendation 
to the exercise of a virtue which he had always possessed, and 
had only wanted power to practise. He acted as the almoner 
of Mr. Rawlinson, and justified his friend's method of benefac- 
tion, (for so this disposal of his affairs might be called), by join- 
ing with the inclination to do good, that choice of object, and 
attention to propriety, which dignifies the purpose, and doubles 
the use of beneficence. 

Having settled accounts of this kind in town, (amongst which 
those of young Jennings and the Terwitt family were not for- 
gotten,) he set out for that estate which had now devolved to 
him by the will of Mr. Rawlinson. With what ideas he made 
this visit, and in what manner he expressed them on his arrival, 
I shall allow his own words to describe, in the following letter 
to Miss Sindall : 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 303 

" Wilbrook, 
" My Lucy will not blame me for want of attention, because 
she has heard of what the world will call my good fortune, only 
from the relation of others. To her I could not address those 
short letters of recital, which I was obliged to write to Sir Tho- 
mas. She will not doubt her Henry's remembrance at all 
times ; it is only with relation to those we love that prosperity 
can produce happiness, and our virtues themselves are nour- 
ished from the consciousness of some favorite suffrage. The 
length of this letter shall make up for a silence occasioned by 
various interruptions. I have had a good deal of business for 
the present ; I have been forming some projects for the future ; 
the idea of my Lucy was absent from neither. 

"After the death of Mr. Rawlinson, the friend of mankind, 
as well as of your Harry, there were some offices of duty which 
the successor of such a man was peculiarly bound to perform. 
Though I could discover no relation of his but one, (whose 
fortune, as it had formerly taught him to overlook his kinsman, 
stood not now in need of that kinsman's acknowledgment,) yet 
there were numbers whom humanity had allied to him. Their 
claim of affinity was now upon me, and their provision a debt 
which I was called upon to discharge ; this kept me some time 
in London. I have another family here whom it was also ne- 
cessary to remember ; I have been among them a week, and 
we have not been unhappy. 

"When I looked into the conveyances of this estate, I found 
it had been once before transferred, in a manner not very com- 
mon in the disposal of modern property. Its owner immedi- 
ately preceding Mr. Rawlinson, was a friend and companion 
of his, who had gone out to India some years later than he, 
and, by his assistance, had been put in the way of acquiring a 
very large fortune. The greatest part of this he remitted to his 
former benefactor in England, to be laid out in some purchase 
near the place of his nativity, which it seems was a village but 
a few miles distant from Wilbrook. This estate was then in 
the possession of a gentleman whose London expenses had 
squandered the savings of four or five generations ; and, after 
having exhausted every other resource, he was obliged to sell 
this inheritance of his family. Mr. Rawlinson gave him the 
price he asked, and made a present of a considerable sum be- 
sides, to a very deserving woman, who had the misfortune to 
! be the wife of this spendthrift. His friend ratified the bargain 
! with thanks ; but he lived not to enjoy his purchase. A fever 
i carried him off in his passage to England, and he bequeathed 
1 his estate to him, by whose former good offices he had been 
, enabled to acquire it. 



304 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

"The new proprietor took a singular method of improving its 
value. He lowered the rents which had been raised to an ex- 
travagant height, and recalled the ancient tenants of the manor, 
most of whom had been driven from the unfriendly soil, to make 
room for desperate adventurers, who undertook for rents they 
could never be able to pay. To such a man was I to succeed, 
and I was conscious how much was required of his successor. 

" The third day after my arrival, I gave a general invitation 
to my tenants and their families to dine with me. The hall 
was trimmed for their reception, and some large antique pieces 
of plate, with which Mr. Rawlinson had furnished his cupboard, 
were ranged on the large table at the end of it. Without doors 
stood a cask of excellent strong beer for any one of inferior 
quality who chose to drink of it, dispensed by an old, but jolly- 
looking servant, whose face was the signal of welcome. 

" I received my guests as friends and acquaintance ; asked 
the names of their children, and praised the bluffness of the 
boys, and the beauty of the girls. I placed one of the most 
matronly wives in the wicker chair at the head of the table ; 
and, occupying the lowest place myself, stationed the rest of 
the company, according to their age, on either side. 

" The dinner had all the appearance of plainness and of 
plenty : amongst other dishes, four large pieces of roast beef 
were placed at uniform distances, and a plum-pudding, of a 
very uncommon circumference, was raised conspicuous in the 
middle. I pressed the bashful among the girls, commended 
the frankness of their fathers, and pledged the jolliest of the set 
in repeated draughts of strong beer. 

"But, though this had the desired effect with some, I could 
observe in the countenances of others evident marks of distrust 
and apprehension. The cloth, therefore, was no sooner re- 
moved, and the grace-cup drunk, then I rose up in my place, 
and addressed my guests to the following purpose : — 

" ' The satisfaction, my worthy friends, with which I now meet 
you, is damped by the recollection of that loss we have sustain- 
ed in the death of your late excellent master. He was to me, 
as to you, a friend and a father ; so may Heaven supply the 
want to me, as I will endeavor to fill his place to you. I call 
you to witness, that I hold his estate by no other title. 

" ' I have given orders to my steward to renew such of your 
leases as are near expiring, at the rent which you have hereto- 
fore paid. If there is an article of encouragement or conve- 
nience wanting to any of you, let him apply to myself, and I will 
immediately inquire into it. No man is above the business of 
doing good. 

" « It is customary, I believe, on such occasions, for the tenant 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 305 

to pay a certain fine or premium to the landlord. I too, my 
friends, will expect one ; you and your families shall pay it me 
— be industrious, be virtuous, be happy.' 

" An exclamation of joy and applause, which the last part of 
my speech had scarcely been able to stifle, now burst forth 
around me. I need not tell my Lucy what I felt ; her heart 
can judge of my feelings ; she will believe me when I say, that 
I would not have exchanged them for the revenue of a monarch. 

" The rest of the day was spent in all the genuine festivity 
of happy spirits. I had enlarged a room adjoining to the hall, 
by striking down a partition at one end ; and closed the enter- 
tainment with a dance, which I led up myself with the rosy- 
cheeked daughter of one of my principle tenants. 

" This visit I have already returned to several of those honest 
folks. I found their little dwellings clean and comfortable, and 
happiness and good-humor seemed the guests of them all. I 
have commonly observed cleanliness and contentment to be 
companions amongst the lower ranks of the country people ; 
nor is it difficult to account for this ; there is a self-satisfaction 
in contented minds which disposes to activity and neatness : 
whereas the reckless lassitude that weighs down the unhappy, 
seldom fails to make drunkards of the men, and slatterns of the 
women. I commended highly the neatness which I found in the 
farm-houses on my estate ; and made their owners presents of 
various household ornaments by way of encouragement. 

" I know the usual mode of improving estates ; I was told by 
some sagacious advisers in London, that mine was improveable ; 
but I am too selfish to be contented with money ; I would in- 
crease the love of my people. 

" Yesterday, and to-day, I have been employed in surveying 
the grounds adjoining to the house. Nature here reigns with- 
out control ; for Mr. Rawlinson did not attend very much to her 
improvement ; and I have heard him say, that he conceived a 
certain esteem for an old tree, or even an old wall, that would 
hardly allow him to think of cutting the one, or pulling down the 
other. Nature, however, has been liberal of her beauties ; but 
these beauties I view not with so partial an eye as the scenes I 
left at Sindall-park. Were my Lucy here to adorn the land- 
scape ! — but the language of affection like mine is not in 
words. She will not need them to believe how much I am her 

"Henry Bolton. " 

26* 



306 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 



CHAPTER XII. 

A change in the family of Sir Thomas SindalL — Some account of a person 
whom that event introduces to Miss Lucy's acquaintance. 

The answer which Bolton received to the foregoing letter, 
contained a piece of intelligence material to the situation of 
Miss Sindall ; it conveyed to him an account of the death of 
Mrs. Selwyn. 

Though that lady was not possessed of many amiable or en- 
gaging qualities, yet Lucy, to whom she had always shown as 
much kindness as her nature allowed her to bestow on any one, 
felt a very lively sorrow for her death, even exclusive of the im- 
mediate consequences which herself was to expect from that 
event. These, indeed, were apparently momentous. Mrs. 
Selwyn had been her guardian and protectress from her in- 
fancy ; and, though Sir Thomas Sindall had ever behaved to 
her like a father, yet there was a feeling in the bosom of Lucy 
that revolted against the idea of continuing in his house after 
his aunt's decease. By that lady's will, she was entitled to a 
legacy of six hundred pounds ; by means of this sum she had 
formed a scheme, which, though it would reduce her to a state 
very different from the ease and affluence of her former circum- 
stances, might yet secure her from the irksomeness of depend- 
ance, or the accusation of impropriety ; this was, to appropri- 
ate two-thirds of the interest of her capital to the payment of an 
annual sum for her board with Mrs. Wistanly. 

It was now that Bolton felt the advantage of independence 
from the hopes of being useful to Lucy ; but he had her delicacy 
to overcome. She would not throw herself, at this moment of 
necessity, into the hands of a man whom fortune had now placed 
above her. She adhered to her first resolution. But the kind- 
ness of Sir Thomas Sindall rendered it unnecessary : for a 
short time after Mrs. Selwyn's death, when Miss Sindall com- 
municated to him her intention of leaving his house, he address- 
ed her in the following terms : " I have always looked upon 
you, Miss Lucy, as a daughter ; and, I hope, there has been no 
want of tenderness or attention, on the side of my aunt or my- 
self, to have prevented your regarding us as parents. At the 
same time, I know the opinions of the world ; mistaken and 
illiberal as they often are, there is a deference which we are 
obliged to pay them. In your sex the sense of decorum should 
he ever awake ; even in this case, I would not attempt to plead 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 307 

against its voice ; but I hope I have hit on a method which will 
perfectly reconcile propriety and convenience. There is a lady, 
a distant relation of our family, whom a marriage, such as the 
world terms imprudent, banished in early life from the notice or 
protection of it ; but, though they could refuse their suffrage to 
the match, they could not control its happiness ; and during the 
life of Mr. Boothby (for that was her husband's name), she ex- 
perienced all the felicity of which wedlock is susceptible. Yet 
on her husband's death, which happened about five years after 
their marriage, the state of his affairs was found to be such, that 
she stood but too much in need of that assistance which her re- 
lations denied her. At the time of her giving the family this 
offence, I was a boy ; and I scarce ever heard of her name till 
I was apprized of her misfortunes. Whatever services I have 
been able to do her, I have found repaid by the sincerest grati- 
tude, and improved to the worthiest purposes. Upon the late 
event of my aunt's death, I was naturally led to wish her place 
supplied by Mrs. Boothby ; she has done me the favor to accept 
of my invitation, and I expect her here this evening. Of any 
thing like authority in this house, Miss Lucy, you shall be 
always independent ; but I flatter myself she has qualities suffi- 
cient to merit your friendship." Lucy returned such an answer 
as the kindness and delicacy of this speech deserved ; and it 
was agreed, that, for the present, her purpose of leaving Bils- 
wood should be laid aside. 

In the evening the expected lady arrived ; she seemed to be 
about the age of fifty, with an impression of melancholy on her 
countenance, that appeared to have worn away her beauty before 
the usual period. Some traces, however, still remained, and her 
eyes, when they met the view of the world, which was but sel- 
dom, discovered a brilliancy not extinguished by her sorrow. 
Her appearance, joined to the knowledge of her story, did not 
fail to attract Miss Sindall's regard ; she received Mrs. Booth- 
by with an air, not of civility, but friendship ; and the othei 
showed a sense of the obligation conferred on her, by a look of 
that modest, tender sort, which equally acknowledges and soli- 
cits our kindness. 

With misfortune a good heart easily makes an acquaintance. 
Miss Sindall endeavored by a thousand little assiduities, to show 
this lady the interest she took in her welfare. That reserve, 
which the humility of affliction, not an unsocial spirit, seemed 
to have taught Mrs. Boothby, wore off by degrees ; their mutual 
esteem increased as their characters opened to each other ; and 
in a short time their confidence was unreserved, and their friend- 
ship appeared to be inviolable. 

Mrs. Boothby had now the satisfaction of pouring the tale of 



308 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

her distresses into the ear of sympathy and friendship. Her 
story was melancholy but not uncommon ; the wreck of her 
husband's affairs, by a mind too enlarged for his fortune, and 
an indulgence of inclinations laudable in their kind, but faulty 
in relation to the circumstances of their owner. 

In the history of her young friend's life there were but few in- 
cidents to communicate in return. She could only say, that she 
remembered herself, from her infancy, an orphan, under the care 
of Sir Thomas Sindall and his aunt ; that she had lived with 
them in a state of quiet and simplicity, without having seen 
much of the world, or wishing to see it. She had but one secret 
to disclose in earnest of her friendship ; it faltered for some 
time on her lips : at last she ventured to let Mrs. Boothby know 
it — her attachment to Bolton. 

From this intelligence the other was led to an inquiry into the 
situation of that young gentleman. She heard the particulars I 
have formerly related, with an emotion not suited to the feelings 
of Miss Sindall: and the sincerity of her friendship declared the 
fears which her prudence suggested. She reminded Lucy of 
the dangers to which youth and inexperience are exposed, by 
the sudden acquisition of riches ; she set forth the many disad- 
vantages of early independence, and hinted the inconstancy of 
attachments, formed in the period of romantic enthusiasm, in the 
scenes of rural simplicity, which are afterwards to be tried by 
the maxims of the world, amidst the society of the gay, the 
thoughtless, and the dissipated. From all this followed con- 
clusions, which it was as difficult as disagreeable for the heart 
of Lucy to form ; it could not untwist those tender ties which 
linked it to Bolton ; but it began to tremble for itself and him. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Certain opinions of Mrs. Boothby. — An attempt to account for them. 

From the particulars of her own story, and of Bolton's, Mrs. 
Boothby drew one conclusion common to both ; to wit, the 
goodness of Sir Thomas Sindall. This, indeed, a laudable 
gratitude had so much impressed on her mind, that the praise 
she frequently bestowed on him, even in his own presence, 
would have savored of adulation to one, who had not known 
the debt which this lady owed to his beneficence. 

Lucy, to whom she would often repeat her eulogium of the 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 309 

baronet, was ready enough to own the obligations herself had 
received, and to join her acknowledgments to those of her 
friend. Yet there was a want of warmth in her panegyric, for 
which Mrs. Boothby would sometimes gently blame her : and 
one day, when they were on that subject, she remarked, with a 
sort of jocular air, the difference of that attachment which Miss 
Sindall felt, in return for so much unwearied kindness as Sir 
Thomas had shown her, and that which a few soft glances had 
procured to the more fortunate Mr. Bolton. Miss Sindall 
seemed to feel the observation with some degree of displea- 
sure ; and answered, blushing, that she considered Sir Thomas 
as a parent whom she was to esteem and revere, not as one for 
whom she was to entertain any sentiment of a softer kind. 

" But suppose," replied the other, " that he should entertain 
sentiments of a softer kind for you." — " I cannot suppose it." — 
" There you are in the wrong ; men of sense and knowledge of 
the world, like Sir Thomas, are not so prodigal of unmeaning 
compliments as giddy young people, who mean not half of what 
they say; but they feel more deeply the force of our attractions, 
and will retain the impression so much the longer as it is grafted 
on maturity of judgment. I am very much mistaken, Miss Lucy, 
if the worthiest of men is not your lover." — " Lover ! Sir Thomas 
Sindall my lover !" — " I profess, my dear, I cannot see the rea- 
son of that passionate exclamation : nor why that man should 
not be entitled to love you, who has himself the best title to be 
beloved." — "I may reverence Sir Thomas Sindall, I may ad- 
mire his goodness ; I will do any thing to show my gratitude to 
him ; but to love him — good heavens !" 

" There is, I know," rejoined Mrs. Boothby, " a certain ro- 
mantic affection, which young people suppose to be the only 
thing that comes under that denomination. From being accus- 
tomed to admire a set of opinions, which they term sentimental, 
opposed to others which they look upon as vulgar and unfeeling, 
they form to themselves an ideal system in those matters, which, 
from the nature of things, must always be disappointed. You 
will find, Miss Sindall, when you have lived to see a little more 
of the world, the insufficiency of those visionary articles of hap- 
piness, that are set forth with such parade of language in novels 
and romances, as consisting in sympathy of soul, and the mutual 
attraction of hearts, destined for each other." 

" You will pardon me," said Lucy, " for making one obser- 
vation, that you yourself are an instance against the universal 
truth of your argument; you married for love, Mrs. Boothby."— 
" I did so," interrupted she, " and therefore I am the better able 
to inform you of the short duration of that paradise such a state 
is supposed to imply. We were looked upon, Miss Lucy, 



310 THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 

as patterns of conjugal felicity ; but folks did little know, how 
soon the raptures with which we went together were changed 
into feelings of a much colder kind. At the same time, Mr. 
Boothby was a good natured man; and, I believe, we were on a 
better footing than most of your couples who marry for love are 
at the end of a twelvemonth. I am now but too well convinced 
that those are the happiest matches which are founded on the 
soberer sentiments of gratitude and esteem." 

To this concluding maxim Lucy made no reply. It was one 
of those which she could not easily bear to believe ; it even tinc- 
tured the character of the person who made it, and she found 
herself not so much disposed to love Mrs. Boothby as she once 
had been. 

For this sort of reasoning, however, that lady had reasons 
which it may not be improper to explain to the reader, if indeed 
the reader has not already discovered them without the assist- 
ance of explanation. 

Sir Thomas Sindall, though he was now verging towards that 
time of life when 

" the heyday of the blood is tame," 

was still as susceptible as ever of the influence of beauty. Miss 
Lucy I have already mentioned as possessing an uncommon 
share of it ; and chance had placed her so immediately under his 
observation and guardianship, that it was scarce possible not 
for him to remark, and having remarked, not to desire it. In 
some minds, indeed, there might have arisen suggestions of 
honor and conscience, unfavorable to the use of that opportun- 
ity which fortune had put in his power; but these were restraints 
which Sir Thomas had so frequently broken, as in a great mea- 
sure to annihilate their force. 

During the life of his aunt, there were other motives to re- 
strain him; those* were now removed; and being solicitous to 
preserve the advantage which he drew from Miss Sindall's 
residence in the house, he pitched on Mrs. Boothby to fill Mrs. 
Selwyn's place, from whom his former good offices gave him an 
additional title to expect assistance, by means of the influence 
she would naturally gain over the mind of one who was in some 
sort to become her ward. As I am willing at present to believe 
that lady's character a fair one, I shall suppose, that he con- 
cealed from her the kind of addresses with which he meant 
to approach her young friend. It is certain there was but one 
kind, which the principles of Sir Thomas allowed him to make. 

One obstacle, however, he foresaw in the attachment which 
he had early discovered her to have towards Bolton. This, on 
the most favorable supposition of the case, he might easily 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 311 

represent to Mrs. Boothby, equally hurtful to Miss Lucy's inter- 
est, and destructive of his own wishes ; and if she was prevailed 
on to espouse his cause, it may account for those lessons of 
prudence which she bestowed upon Miss Sindall. Besides this, 
the baronet did not scruple to use some other methods, still 
more dishonorable, of shaking her confidence in his cousin. 
He fell upon means of secretly intercepting that young gentle- 
man's letters to Lucy; from this he drew a double advantage; 
both of fastening a suspicion on Harry's fidelity, and acquiring 
such intelligence as might point his own machinations to defeat 
the purposes which that correspondence contained. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

A discovery interesting to Miss Sindall. 

Under those circumstances of advantage in which Sir Tho- 
mas Sindall stood, it did not seem a matter of extreme difficulty 
to accomplish that design which I have hinted to my readers in 
the preceding chapter. Let him, whose indignation is roused 
at the mention of it, carry his feelings abroad into life, he will 
find other Sindalls whom the world has not marked with its dis- 
pleasure. In the simplicity of my narrative, what is there that 
should set up this one to his hatred or his scorn ? Let but the 
heart pronounce its judgment, and the decision will be the 
same. 

Hitherto Sir Thomas had appeared as the parent and guard- 
ian of Lucy : and though, at times, certain expressions escaped 
him, which the quickness of more experienced, that is, less in- 
nocent minds, would have discovered to belong to another char- 
acter ; yet she to whom they were addressed, had heard them 
without suspicion. But she was now alarmed by the sugges- 
tions of Mrs. Boothby ; these suggestions it is possible the baro- 
net himself had prompted. He knew the force of that poison 
which is conveyed in those indirect approaches, when a woman's 
vanity is set on the watch by the assistance of a third person. 
She who imagines she hears them with indifference, is in danger; 
but she who listens to them with pleasure, is undone. 

With Lucy, however, they failed of that effect which the baro- 
net's experience had promised him : She heard them with a sort 
of disgust at Mrs. Boothby, and something like fear of Sir Tho- 
mas. Her uneasiness increased as his declarations began to be 



312 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

more pointed, though they were then only such as some women, 
who had meant to give them no favorable ear, might perhaps 
have been rather flattered than displeased with ; but Miss Sin- 
dall was equally void of the art by which we disguise our own 
sentiments, and the pride we assume from the sentiments of 
others. 

To her virtues Sir Thomas was no stranger ; they were diffi- 
culties which served but as spurs in his pursuit. That he con- 
tinued it with increasing ardor, may be gathered from two 
letters, which I subjoin for the information of the reader. The 
first is addressed 

" To Mrs. Wistanly. 

" My Dear Madam, 

" I fear you begin to accuse me of neglect : but there are rea- 
sons why I cannot so easily write to you as formerly. Even 
without this apology, you would scarce believe me capable of 
forgetting you, who are almost the only friend I am possessed 
of. Alas ! I have need of a friend ! pity and direct me. 

"Sir Thomas Sindall — how shall I tell it? — he has ceased to 
be that guardian, that protector, I esteemed him ; he says he 

loves, he adores me ; 1 know not why it is, but I shudder 

when I hear these words from Sir Thomas Sindall. 

"But I have better reason for my fears; he has used such ex- 
pressions of late, that, though I am not skilled enough in the 
language of his sex to understand their meaning fully, yet they 
convey too much for his honor and for my peace 

" Nor is this all. — Last night I was sitting in the parlor with 
him and Mrs. Boothby (of whom I have much to tell you) ; 
I got up, and stood in the bow window, looking at the rays of 
the moon, which glittered on the pond in the garden. There 
was something of enviable tranquillity in the scene ; I sighed as 
I looked. — ' That's a deep one,' said Sir Thomas, patting me 
on the shoulder behind ; I turned round somewhat in a flurry, 
when I perceived that Mrs. Boothby had left the room. I made 
a motion towards the door; Sir Thomas placed himself with his 
back to it. « Where is Mrs. Boothby V said I, though I trembled 
so, that I could scarcely articulate the words. * What is my 
sweet girl frightened at?' said he ; * here are none but love and 
Sindall.' He fell on his knees, and repeated a great deal of 
jargon, (I was so confused, I know not what,) holding my hands 
all the while fast in his. I pulled them away at last; he rose, 
and clasping me round the waist, would have forced a kiss ; 
I screamed out, and he turned from me. ' What's the matter? 
said Mrs. Boothby, who then entered the room. ' A mouse 
running across the carpet, frightened Miss Lucy,' answered Sir 



THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 313 

Thomas. I could not speak, but I sat down on the sofa, and 
had almost fainted. Sir Thomas brought me some wine and 
water, and, pressing my hand, whispered, that he hoped I would 
forgive an offence which was already too much punished by its 
effects ; but he looked so, while he spoke this ! 

" Oh ! Mrs. Wistanly, with what regret do I now recollect 
the days of peaceful happiness I have passed in your little 
dwelling, when we were at Sindall park. I remember I often 
wished, like other foolish girls, to be a woman; methinks I would 
now gladly return to the state of harmless infancy I then neg- 
lected to value. I am but ill made for encountering difficulty 
or danger ; yet I fear my path is surrounded with both. Could 
you receive me again under your roof? there is something hal- 
lowed resides beneath it. — Yet this may not now be so conven- 
ient — I know not what to say — here I am miserable. Write to 
me, I entreat you, as speedily as may be. You never yet 
denied me your advice or assistance ; and never before were 
they so necessary to your faithful L. Sindall." 

To this letter Miss Sindall received no answer; in truth 
it never reached Mrs. Wistanly, the servant, to whom she en- 
trusted its conveyance, having, according to the instructions he 
had received, delivered it into the hands of his master Sir Tho- 
mas Sindall. She concluded, therefore, either that Mrs. Wis- 
tanly found herself unable to assist her in her present distress, 
or, what she imagined more probable, that age had now weak- 
ened her faculties so much, as to render her callous even to 
that feeling which should have pitied it. She next turned her 
thoughts upon Miss Walton, the manner of her getting ac- 
quainted with whom I have related in the fifth chapter of this 
part ; but she learned that Mr. Walton had, a few days before, 
set out with his daughter on a journey to the continent, to 
which he had been advised by her physicians, as she had, 
for some time past, been threatened with symptoms of a con- 
sumptive disorder. These circumstances and Sir Thomas's 
further conduct in the interval, induced her to address the 
following letter to Bolton, though she began to suspect, from 
the supposed failure of his correspondence, that the suggestions 
she had heard of his change of circumstances having taught him 
to forget her, had but too much foundation in reality. 

" To Henry Bolton, Esq. 
" Is it true, that amidst the business, or the pleasures of 
his new situation, Harry Bolton has forgotten Lucy Sindall ? 
Forlorn as I now am — but I will not complain — I would now 
less than ever complain to you — Yet it is not pride, it is not — 
I weep while I write this ! 

27 



314 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

" But, perhaps, though I do not hear from you, you may yet 
remember her to whom you had once some foolish attachment. 
It is fit you think of her no more; she was then indeed a 
dependant orphan, but there was a small challenge of protection 
from friends, to whom it was imagined her infancy had been en- 
trusted. Know, that this was a fabricated tale ; she is, in truth, 
a wretched foundling, exposed in her infant state, by the cruelty 
or necessity of her parents, to the inclemency of a winter storm, 
from which miserable situation Sir Thomas Sindall delivered 
her. This he has but a little since told me, in the most ungen- 
erous manner, and from motives which I tremble to think on. — 
Inhuman that he is ! why did he save me, then ? 

" This Mrs. Boothby, too ! encompassed as I was with evils, 
was I not wretched enough before ? yet this new discovery has 
been able to make me more so. My head grows dizzy when I 
think on it ! — to be blotted out from the records of society ! — 
What misery or what vice have my parents known ! yet now to 
be the child of a beggar, in poverty and rags, is a situation I am 
forced to envy. 

" I had one friend from whom I looked for some assistance — 
Mrs. Wistanly, from infirmity, I fear, has forgotten me ; I have 
ventured to think on you. Be but my friend, and no more talk 
not of love, that you may not force me to refuse your friendship. 
If you are not changed, indeed, you will be rewarded enough 
when I tell you, that, to remove me from the dangers of this 
dreadful place, will call forth more blessings from my heart, than 
any other can give, that is not wrung with anguish like that of 
the unfortunate 

"L. Sindall." 



CHAPTER XV. 

She receives a letter from Bolton. — A new alarm from Sir Thomas Sindall. 

It happened that the messenger to whom the charge of the 
foregoing billet was committed, was a person not in that line, 
of association which the baronet had drawn around her ; conse- 
quently it escaped interception. 

When Bolton received it, he was not only alarmed with the 
intelligence it contained, but his fears were doubly roused from 
the discovery it made to him, of his letters not being suffered to 
reach Miss Sindall. He dispatched his answer, therefore, by a 
special messenger, who was ordered to watch an opportunity of 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 315 

delivering it privately into the hands of the lady to whom it was 
addressed. This he found no easy matter to accomplish ; nor 
would he, perhaps, have been able to effect it at all, but for an 
artifice to which he had recourse, of hiring himself on a job in 
Sir Thomas's garden, for which his knowledge in the business 
happened to qualify him. He had, indeed, been formerly em- 
ployed in that capacity at Sindall park, and had there been well 
enough known to Miss Lucy, who was herself a gardener for 
amusement ; and, after leaving that place, having gone to the 
neighborhood of London for improvement, he was met, and 
hired by his former acquaintance, Mr. Bolton, 

The very next evening after he had got into this station, he 
observed Miss Sindall enter the garden alone. This was an 
opportunity not to be missed ; on pretence, therefore, of fetching 
somewhat from the end of the walk she was on, he passed her, 
and pulling off his hat with a look significant of prior acquaint- 
ance. Lucy observed him, and feeling a sort of momentary 
comfort from the recollection, began some talk with him respect- 
ing his former situation, and the changes it had undergone. She 
asked him many questions about their old neighbors at Sindall 
park, and particularly Mrs. Wistanly ; when she was soon con- 
vinced of her misapprehension with regard to a failure of that 
worthy woman's intellects, Jerry (so the gardener was familiarly 
called,) having seen her on his way to Bilswood, and heard her 
speak of Miss Lucy with the most tender concern. " And what 
was your last service, Jerry V said she. — " I wrought for Mr. 
Bolton, madam." — '* Mr. Bolton ?" — " And I received this 
paper from him for your ladyship, which I was ordered to deli- 
ver into your own hands, and no other body's, an't please your 
ladyship." She took the letter with a trembling impatience, and 
whispering, that she would find an opportunity of seeing him 
again, hurried up into her chamber to peruse it. She found it 
to contain what follows : 

" I have not words to tell my ever-dearest Lucy, with what 
distracting anxiety I read the letter that is now lying before me. 
To give her suspicions of my faith, must have been the work of 
no common treachery : when she knows that I wrote to her 
three several times without receiving any answer, she will, at 
the same time, acquit me of inconstancy, and judge of my un- 
easiness. 

" That discovery which she had lately made, is nothing to her 
or to me. My Lucy is the child of heaven, and her inheritance 
every excellence it can bestow. 

" But her present situation — my God ! what horrible images 
has my fancy drawn of it ! For Heaven's sake, let not even the 



316 THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 

most amiable of weaknesses prevent her escaping from it into 
the arms of her faithful Bolton. I dispatch a messenger with 
this instantly. I shall follow him myself, the moment I have 
made some arrangements, necessary for your present safety and 
future comfort. I shall be in the neighborhood of Bilswood, 
for I am forbidden to enter, Sir Thomas having taken occasion, 
from my resigning a commission which would have fixed me 
ingloriously in a garrison abroad, that I might be of some use to 
my country at home, to write me a letter in the angriest terms, 
renouncing me, as he expresses it, for ever. I see, I see the 
villany of his purpose ; 'tis but a few days hence, and I will 
meet him in the covert of his falsehood, and blast it. Let my 
Lucy be but just to herself and to 

"Bolton." 

She had scarcely read this, when Mrs. Boothby entered the 
room. The baronet had, for some days quitted that plan of in- 
timidation, which had prompted him to discover to Lucy the 
circumstance of her being a wretched foundling, supported by 
his charity, for a behaviour more mild and insinuating ; and Mrs. 
Boothby, who squared her conduct accordingly, had been par- 
ticularly attentive and obliging. She now delivered to Miss 
Sindall a message from a young lady in the neighborhood, an 
acquaintance of her's, begging her company, along with Mrs. 
Boothby's to a party of pleasure the day after. " And really, 
Miss Sindall," said she, with an air of concern, " I must enforce 
the invitation from a regard to your health, as you seem to have 
been drooping for some days past." Lucy looked her full in 
the face, and sighed ; that look she did not choose to understand, 
but repeated her question as to their jaunt to-morrow. " Miss 
Venhurst will call at nine, and expects to find you ready to at- 
tend her" — " What you please," replied the other ; " if Miss 
Yenhurst is to be of the party, I have no objection." The con- 
sent seemed to give much satisfaction to Mrs. Boothby, who left 
her with a gentle tap on the back, and an unusual appearance of 
kindness in her aspect. 

Lucy read her letter again ; she had desired Bolton to think 
of her no more ; but there is in the worthiest hearts, a little 
hypocrisy attending such requests : she found herself happy 
in the thought that he had not forgotten her. 

When she opened her bureau, to deposit this fresh testimony 
of his attachment, she observed the corner of a piece of paper, 
which had been thrust into a fissure occasioned by the shrinking 
of the wood. Her curiosity was excited by this circumstance ; 
and unfolding the paper she found it to contain 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 317 

" To Miss Sindle. 

"Madm. — I writ this from a sincear regaird to yur welfer. 
Sir Tho. Sindle hase a helitch plott against yur vartue, and hase 
imployde Mrs. Buthbie, whu is a woornan of a notoreus karicter 
in Londun to assist him. They will putt yu on a jant tomoro 
on pretens of seeing Mss Venhrst, butt it is fals : for she is not 
to be thair, and they only wants to inveegle yu for a wicket pur- 
pes. therfor bi advyzd by a frinde, and du not go. 

" Yur secrt welwishar, 

R. S." 

Amazement and horror filled the mind of Lucy as she read 
this ; but, when the first perturbation of her soul was over, she 
bethought herself of endeavoring to find out her friend in the 
author of this epistle, whose compassion seemed so much inter- 
ested in her behalf. She remembered that one of the servants 
who was sometimes employed to ride out with her, was called 
Robert, which agreed with the first initial of the subscription of 
the note she had received. At supper, therefore, though she 
wore a look of as much indifference as possible, she marked, 
with a secret attention, the appearance of this man's counte- 
nance. Her belief of his being the person who had communi- 
cated this friendly intelligence, was increased from her observa- 
tion ; and she determined to watch an opportunity of questioning 
him with regard to it. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Miss Sindall has an interview with Robert. — A resolution she takes in 
consequence of it. 

After a night of wakeful anxiety, she was called in the 
morning by Mrs. Boothby, who told her, that breakfast waited, 
as it was near the hour they proposed setting out on their jaunt. 
" Miss Venhurst," continued she, " has sent to let you know, 
that she is prevented from calling here as she promised, but that 

she will meet us on the road." " I am sorry," answered 

Lucy with a counterfeited coolness, " that I should be forced to 
disappoint her in my turn ; but I rested so ill last night, and my 

head aches so violently, that I cannot possibly attend her." 

" Not go !" exclaimed Mrs. Boothby ; " why, my dear, you 
will disjoint the whole party ; besides, I have not time to ac- 

27* 



318 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

quaint the Venhurst family, and it will look so odd." — " It will 
look odder," said Lucy, " if I should go abroad when I am really 
so very much indisposed." — " Nay, if you are really so much 
indisposed," answered the other, " I will send our apology, late 
as it is."-*-" But you shall not stay at home to attend me," in- 
terrupted Lucy. " Indeed but I shall," replied Mrs. Boothby ; 
" it was on your account only that I proposed going. Keep 
your chamber, and I will send you up some tea immediately." — 
And she left the room for that purpose. 

Her attention, indeed, was but too vigilant for the scheme 
which Lucy had formed of examining Robert about the note she 
had found in her bureau ; but accident at last furnished her with 
the opportunity she sought. Mrs. Boothby having left her, in. 
order to preside at dinner, sent this very servant, with a plate of 
something to her patient above stairs. He would have deliver- 
ed it to one of the maids at the door ; but Lucy hearing his 
voice, desired that he might come in, on pretence of talking to 
him about a young horse she had employed him to ride for her, 
and sending the maid on some errand, put the paper into bis 
hand, and asked him, if he was the person to whom she was 
indebted for a piece of information so momentous. The fellow 
blushed, and stammered, and seemed afraid to confess his kind- 
ness. " For God's sake," said Lucy, " do not trifle with my mi- 
sery ; there is no time to lose in evasions ; what do you know 
of Sir Thomas's designs against me'?" — "Why, for certain, ma- 
dam," said he, " servants should not blab their master's secrets ; 
but your ladyship is so sweet a lady that I could not bear to see 
you so deceived. Sir Thomas's valet-de-chamb is a chum of 
mine, and he told me, after having made me promise to keep it 
a profound secret, that his master designed to entice you on a 
party with Mrs. Boothby ; that they were to stop at a solitary 

farmhouse of his, and there Sir Thomas" " Forbear the 

shocking recital," cried Lucy — " To be sure it is shocking,'* 
said Robert, " and so I said to Jem when he told me ; but he 
answered (your ladyship will forgive me for repeating his words) 
that it mattered not much ; for she is nothing better, said he, 
than a beggarly foundling, whom my master and I picked up, 
one stormy night, on the road, near his hunting-place there at 
Hazleden ; and, having taken a liking to the child, he brought 
her home to Mrs. Selwyn, pretending, that she was the daughter 
of a gentleman of his own name, a friend of his who died abroad ; 
and his aunt, believing the story, brought her up for all the world 
like a lady, and left her forsooth a legacy at her death ; but if 
all were as it should be, she would be following some drag- 
gle-tailed gipsy, instead of flaunting in her fineries here." — 
*' Would that I were begging my bread, so I were but out of this 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 319 

frightful house." — " I wish you were," said Robert simply, "for 
I fear there are more plots hatching against you than you are 
aware of: is not Mrs. Boothby's Sukey to sleep to-night in the 
room with your ladyship ?" — " I consented, on Mrs. Boothby's 
importunity, that she should." — " Why then," continued he, "I 
saw Jem carry a cast gown of Mrs. Boothby's, she had formerly 
given to Sukey, but which she asked back from the girl, on pre- 
tence of taking a pattern from it, into his master's dressing-room ; 
and when I asked him what he was doing with it there, he winked 
thus, and said, it was for somebody to masquerade in to-night." 
"Gracious God!" cried Lucy, "whither shall I turn me? — 
Robert, if ever thou wouldst find grace with Heaven, pity a 
wretch that knows not where to look for protection !" — She had 
thrown herself on her knees before him. " What can I do for 
your ladyship?" said he, raising her from the ground. " Take me 
from this dreadful place," she exclaimed, holding by the sleeves 
of his coat, as if she feared his leaving her. " Alas !" answered 
Robert, " I cannot take you from it." She stood for some mo- 
ments wrapped in thought, the fellow looking piteously in her 
face. " It will do," she cried, breaking from him, and running 
into her dressing-closet. " Look here, Robert, look here; could 
I not get from this window on the garden wall, and so leap down 
into the outer court?" — " But supposing your ladyship might, 
what would you do then ?" — " Could not you procure me a 
horse ? — Stay — there is one of the chaise horses at grass in the 
paddock — do you know the road to Mrs. Wistanly's?" — "Mrs. 
Wistanly's !" — " For Heaven's sake refuse not my request ; 
you cannot be so cruel as to refuse it." — " I would do much to 
serve your ladyship ; but if they should discover us." " Talk 
not of ifs, my dear Robert ; — but soft — I will manage it thus — 
no, that can't be, either — the servants are in bed by eleven." 
* Before it, an't please your ladyship." " If you could contrive 
to have that horse saddled at the gate so soon as all is quiet 
within, I can get out and meet you." "I don't know what to 
say to it." — Somebody from below cried, Robert. — Lucy was 
down on her knees again. — " Stay, I conjure you, and answer 
me." — "For God's sake, rise,"' said he, " and do not debase 
yourself to a poor servant, as I am." — " Never will I rise, till you 
promise to meet me at eleven." " I will, I will, (and the tears 
gushed into his eyes,) whatever be the consequence." Sukey 
appeared at the door, calling Robert, again ; — he ran down 
stairs, Lucy followed him some steps insensibly, with her hands 
folded together in the attitude of supplication. 

In the interval between this and the time of putting her 
scheme into execution, she suffered all that fear and suspense 
could inflict. She wished to see again the intended companion 



320 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

of her escape ; but the consciousness of her purpose stopped 
her tongue when she would have uttered some pretence for 
talking with him. At times her resolution was staggered by 
the thoughts of the perils attending her flight ; but her imagi- 
nation presently suggested the danger of her stay, and the dread 
of the greater evil became a fortitude against a less. 

The hour of eleven at last arrived. Mrs. Boothby, whose at- 
tendance was afterwards to be supplied by that of her maid, had 
just bid her good-night, on her pretending an unusual drowsi- 
ness, and promised to send up Sukey in a very little after. Lucy 
went into her dressing-closet, and, fastening the door, got up 
on a chair at the window, which she had taken care to leave open 
some time before, and stepped out on the wall of the garden, 
which was broad enough a-top to admit of her walking along it. 
When she got as far as the gate, she saw, by the light of the 
moon, Robert standing at the place of appointment : he caught 
her in his arms when she leaped down. "Why do you tremble 
so ?" said she, her own lips quivering as she spoke. — " Is the 
horse ready?" — "Here," answered Robert, stammering, "but" 
— "Get on," said Lucy, "and let us away for Heaven's sake !* 
— He seemed" scarce able to mount the horse ; she sprung from 
the ground on the pad behind him. " Does your ladyship think," 
said Robert faintly, as they left the gate, " of the danger you 
run ?" — " There is no danger but within those hated walls." — 
" 'Twill be a dreadful night ;" for it began to rain, and the 
thunder rolled at a distance. — " Fear not," said she, " we can- 
not miss our way." — "But if they should overtake us." — "They 
shall not, they shall not overtake us !" — Robert answered with 
a deep sigh ! But they were now at some distance from the 
house, and striking out of the highway into a lane, from the end 
of which a short road lay, over a common to the village in which 
Mrs. Wistanly lived, they put on a very quick pace, and in % 
short time Lucy imagined herself pretty safe from pursuit. 



CHAPTER XVIL 

Bolton sets oat for BiIswckxL — A recital of some incidents in his journey. 

As I flatter myself that my readers feel some interest in the 
fate of Miss Sindall, I would not leave that part of my narration 
which regarded her, till I had brought it to the period of her es- 
cape. Having accompanied her thus far, I return to give some 
account of Mr. Bolton. 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 321 

According to the promise he had made to Lucy, he set out 
for Bilswood two days after the date of that letter she received 
from him by the hands of his gardener. That faithful fellow 
had orders to return, after delivering it, and on procuring what 
intelligence he could of the family, to wait his master, at a little 
inn, about five miles distant from Sir Thomas Sindall's. The 
first part of his business the reader has seen him accomplish ; 
as to the rest, he was only able to learn something, confusedly, 
of the baronet's attachment to Miss Lucy. He expected to 
have seen that young lady again on the day following that of 
their first interview ; but her attention had been so much occu- 
pied by the discoveries related in the two last chapters, and con- 
triving the means of avoiding the danger with which she was 
threatened, that her promise to the bearer of Mr. Bolton's letter 
had escaped her memory. He set out therefore, for the place 
of appointment on the evening of that day, and reached it but a 
very short time before his master arrived. 

Bolton, having learned what particulars Jerry could inform 
him of, desired him to return in the morning to his work in Sir 
Thomas's garden, and remain there till he should receive fur- 
ther orders ; then, leaving his horses and servants for fear of 
discovery, he set out on foot, in the garb of a peasant, which 
Jerry had found means to procure him. 

As he had passed several years of his life at Bilswood, he 
trusted implicitly to his own knowledge of the way ; but soon 
after his leaving the inn, the moon was totally darkened and it 
rained with such violence, accompanied with incessant peals 
of thunder, that, in the confusion of the scene, he missed his 
path, and had wandered a great way over the adjacent common 
before he discovered his mistake. "When he endeavored to re- 
gain the road, he found himself entangled in a very thick brake 
of furze, which happened to lie on that side whence he had 
turned ; and, after several fruitless efforts to make his way- 
through it, he was obliged to desist from the attempt, and tread 
back the steps he had made, till he returned to the open part 
of the heath. Here he stood, uncertain what course to take ; 
when he observed at a distance the twinkling of a light, which 
immediately determined him. On advancing somewhat nearer, 
he found a little winding track that seemed to point towards the 
place ; and, after following it some time, he could discern an 
object which he took for the house to which it led. 

The lightning which now flashed around him, discovered on 
each hand the earth raised into mounds that seemed graves of 
the dead, and here and there a bone lay on the walk he trod. 
A few paces further, through a narrow Gothic door, gleamed a 
light, which faintly illuminated a length of vault within. To 



322 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

this Bolton approached, not without some degree of fear; when 
he perceived at the further end, a person in a military uniform, 
sitting by a fire he had made of some withered brushwood piled 
up against the wall. As Harry approached him, the echo of the 
place doubled the hollow sound of his feet. " Who is there t n 
cried the stranger, turning at the noise, and half unsheathing a 
hanger which he wore at his side. " A friend," replied Harry, 
bowing " who takes the liberty of begging a seat by your fire." 
" Your manner," said the other, " belies your garb ; but who- 
ever you are, you are welcome to what shelter this roof can af- 
ford, and what warmth my fire can give, We are, for the time, 
joint lords of the mansion, for my title is no other than the in- 
clemency of the night. It is such a one as makes even this 
gloomy shelter enviable : and that broken piece of mattock, 
and this flint, are precious, because they lighted some bits of 
dry straw, to kindle the flame that warms us. By the moss 
grown altar, and the frequent figures of the cross, I suppose 
these are the remains of some chapel devoted to ancient venera- 
tion. Sit down on this stone, if you please, Sir, and our offerings 
shall be a thankful heart over some humble fare which my knap- 
sack contains." As he spoke, he pulled out a loaf of coarse 
bread, a piece of cheese, and a bottle of ale. Bolton expressed 
his thanks for the invitation, and partook of the repast. "I fear, 
Sir," said his companion, " you will be poorly supped ; but I 
have known what it is to want even a crust of bread. You 
look at me with surprise ; but though I am poor, I am honest." 
— " Pardon me," answered Harry. " I entertain no suspicion ; 
there is something that speaks for you in this bosom, and an- 
swers for your worth. It may be in my power to prevent, for 
the future, those hardships which, I fear, you have formerly en- 
dured." The soldier held forth the bit of bread which he was 
putting to his mouth. " He, to whom this fare is luxury, can 
scarcely be dependent ; yet my gratitude to you, Sir, is equally 
due ; if I have felt misfortune, I have deserved it." — He sigh- 
ed, and Harry answered him with a sigh — "I see a sort of 
question in your face, Sir, and I know not why it is, there are 
some faces I cannot easily resist. If my story outlasts the 
storm, it will take from the irksomeness of its duration." 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 323 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

The stranger relates the history of his life. 

" It is now upwards of twenty years since I left my native 
country. You are too young, Sir, to have gained much know- 
ledge of mankind ; let me warn you, from sad experience, to 
beware of those passions which at your age I was unable to re- 
sist, and which, in the commerce of the world, will find abund- 
ant occasion to overcome incautious and inexperienced youth. 
Start not when I tell you, that you see before you one whom the 
laws of his country had doomed to expiate his crimes by death, 
though, from the mercy of his prince, that judgment was miti- 
gated into a term of transportation, some time ago elapsed. 
This punishment I incurred from the commission of a robbery, 
to which some particular circumstances, joined to the poverty- 
consequent on dissipation and extravagance, had tempted me. 

" The master to whom my service was adjudged in the West 
Indies, happened to die soon after my arrival there. I got my 
freedom, therefore, though it was but to change it for a service 
as severe as my former : I was enlisted in a regiment then sta- 
tioned in the island, and being considered as a felon, unworthy 
of any mild treatment, was constantly exposed to every hardship 
which the strictest duty, or the most continual exposure to the 
dangers of the climate, could inflict. Had I revealed my story, 
and taken advantage of that distinction which my birth and edu- 
cation would have made between the other convicts and me, it 
is probable I might have prevented most of the evils both of my 
former and present situation ; but I set out, from the first, with 
a fixed determination of suffering every part of my punishment, 
which the law allots to the meanest and most unfriended. All 
the severities, therefore, which were now imposed upon me, I 
bore without repining : and, from an excellent natural constitu- 
tion, was not only able to overcome them, but they served to 
render me still more patient of fatigue, and less susceptible of 
impression from the vicissitudes of the weather ; and from a 
sullen disregard of life, with which the remembrance of better 
days inspired me, my soul became as fearless as my body ro- 
bust. These qualities made me be taken notice of by some of 
the officers in the regiment, and afterwards, when it was ordered 
to America, and went on some Indian expeditions, were still 
more serviceable and more attractive of observation. By these 
means I began to obliterate the disgrace which my situation at 



324 THE MAN OF THE WQRLF. 

enlisting had fixed upon me ; and, if still regarded as a rufHanv 
I was at least acknowledged to be a useful one. Not long 
after, on occasion of a piece of service I performed for an officer 
on an advanced guard, that was attacked by a party of hostile 
Indians, I was promoted to a halberd. The stigma, however, 
of my transportation was not yet entirely forgotten, and by some 
it was the better remembered, because of my present advance- 
ment. One of those, with whom I had never been on good 
terms, was particularly offended at being commanded, as he 
termed it, by a jail-bird ; and one clay, when I was on guard, 
had drawn on the back of my coat, the picture of a gallows, on 
which was hung a figure in caricature, with the initials of my name 
written over it. This was an affront too gross to be tamely put 
up with ; having sought out the man, who did not deny the 
charge, I challenged him to give me satisfaction by fighting me. 
But this, from the opinion conceived of my strength and ferocity, 
he did not choose to accept ; on which I gave him so severe a 
drubbing, that he was unable to mount guard in his turn, and 
the surgeon reported that his life was in danger. For this 
offence I was tried by a court-martial, and sentenced to receive 
five hundred lashes as a punishment. When their sentence was 
communicated to me, I petitioned that it might be changed into 
death ; but my request was refused. That very day, therefore, 
I received one hundred lashes, (for the sentence was to be exe- 
cuted at different periods,) and next morning was to suffer as 
many more. The remainder, however, I resolved, if possible, 
to escape by an act of suicide. This I was only prevented from 
putting in execution by the want of opportunity ; as I had been 
stripped of every the smallest weapon of offence, and was bound 
with ropes to one of the posts of my 1 bed. I contrived, never- 
theless, about midnight, to reach the fireplace with my feet, 
and having drawn out thence a live ember, disposed it immedi- 
ately under the most combustible part of the bed. It had very 
soon the effect I desired ; the room was set on fire, and I re- 
gained my liberty, by the ropes, with which I was tied, being 
burnt. At that moment, the desire of life was rekindled by the 
possibility of escaping ; the flames bursting out fiercely at one 
side of the house where I lay, the attention of the soldiers whom 
the fire had awakened, was principally turned to that quarter, 
and I had an opportunity of stealing off unperceived at the op- 
posite side. We were then in a sort of wooden huts, which had 
been built for our accommodation on the outside of one of our 
frontier forts ; so that, when I had run two or three hundred 
yards, I found myself in the shelter of a wood, pretty secure 
from pursuit ; but, as there it was impossible for me long to 
subsist, and I had no chance of escaping detection if I ventured 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 325 

to approach the habitations of any of my countrymen, I had 
formed the resolution of endeavoring to join the Indians, whose 
scouting parties I had frequently seen at a small distance from 
our outposts. I held, therefore, in a direction which I judged 
the most probable for falling in with them, and in a very little 
after daybreak discovered a party, seated after the manner of 
their country, in a ring, with the ashes of their newly-extinguish- 
ed fire in the middle. I advanced slowly to the place, which I 
had almost reached before I was perceived. When they dis- 
covered me, they leaped up on their feet, and seizing their arms, 
screamed out the war-whoop, to alarm the different small parties? 
who had passed the night in resting places near them. One of 
them, presenting his piece, took aim at me ; but I fell on my 
knees, showed them my defenceless state, and held out my 
hands, as if imploring their mercy and protection. Upon this, 
one of the oldest among them made a sign to the rest, and ad- 
vancing towards me, asked me, in broken French, mixed with 
his own language, of which two I understood something, what 
was my intention, and whence I came ? I answered as distinctly 
as I could to these interrogatories ; and showing the sores on 
my back, which I gave him to understand had been inflicted at 
the fort, made protestations, both by imperfect language and 
significant gestures, of my friendship to his countrymen, and 
hatred to my own. After holding a moment's conversation 
with the rest, he took my hand, and, leading me a little forward, 
placed me in the midst of the party. Some of them examined 
me attentively, and upon some farther discourse together, 
brought the baggage, with which two prisoners, lately made 
from some adverse tribe, had been loaded, and laid it upon me. 
This burden, which to any man would have been oppressively 
heavy, you may believe, was much more intolerable to me, 
whose flesh was yet raw from the lashes I had received ; but as 
I knew that fortitude was an indispensable virtue with the In- 
dians, I bore it without wincing, and we proceeded on the route 
which the party I had joined were destined to pursue. During 
the course of our first day's march, they often looked steadfastly 
in my face, to discover if I showed any signs of uneasiness. 
When they saw that I did not, they lightened my load by de- 
grees, and at last, the senior chief, who had first taken notice 
of me, freed me from it altogether, and, at the same time, chew- 
ing some herbs he found in the wood, applied them to my sores, 
which in a few day's were almost entirely healed. I was then 
intrusted with a tomahawk, and shortly after with a gun, to the 
dextrous use of both which weapons 1 was frequently exercised 
by the young men of our party, during the remainder of our ex- 
pedition. It lasted some months, in which time I had also become 

28 



326 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

tolerably acquainted with their language. At the end of this 
excursion, in which they warred on some other Indian nations, 
they returned to their own country, and were received with all 
the barbarous demonstrations of joy peculiar to that people. In 
a day or two after their arrival, their prisoners were brought forth 
into a large plain, where the kindred of those who had been 
slain by the nations to which the captives belonged, assembled 
to see them. Each singled out his expiatory prisoner, and 
having taken him home to his hut, such as choose that kind of 
satisfaction, adopted them in place of the relations they had 
lost ; with the rest they returned to their former place of meet- 
ing, and began to celebrate the festival of their revenge. You 
can hardly conceive a species of inventive cruelty, which they 
did not inflict on the wretches whom fortune had thus put into 
their power ; during the course of which, not a groan escaped 
from the sufferers ; but while the use of their voices remained, 
they sung in their rude, yet forcible manner, the glory of their 
former victories, and the pleasure they had received from the 
death of their foes ; concluding always with the hopes of re- 
venge from the surviving warriors of their nation. Nor was it 
only for the pleasure of the reflection that they carolled thus the 
triumphs of the past ; for I could observe, that, when at any time 
the rage of their tormentors seemed to subside, they poured forth 
those boastful strains in order to rekindle their fury, that intense- 
ness of pain might not be wanting in the trial of their fortitude. 
I perceived the old man, whom I have before mentioned, keep 
his eye fixed upon me during this inhuman solemnity ; and fre- 
quently, when an extreme degree of torture was borne with that 
calmness which I have described, he would point, with an ex- 
pressive look, to him on whom it was inflicted, as if he had de- 
sired me to take particular notice of his resolution. I did not 
then fully comprehend the meaning of this ; but I afterwards 
understood it to have been a preparatory hint of what I myself 
was to endure ; for the next morning, after the last surviving 
prisoner had expired, I was seized by three or four Indians, who 
stripped me of what little clothes I had then left, tied me in a 
horizontal posture between the branches of two large trees they 
had fixed in the ground, and, after the whole tribe had danced 
round me to the music of a barbarous howl', they began to re-act 
upon me nearly the same scene they had been engaged in the 
day before. After each of a certain select number had struck 
his knife into my body, though they carefully avoided any mortal 
wound, they rubbed it over, bleeding as it was, with gunpowder, 
the salts of which gave me the most, exquisite pain. Nor did 
the ingenuity of these practised tormentors stop here ; they af- 
terwards laid quantities of dry gunpowder on different parts of 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 327 

my body, and set fire to them, by which I was burnt in some 
places to the bone. — But I see you shudder at the horrid re- 
cital; suffice it then to say, that these, and some other such ex- 
periments of wanton cruelty, I bore with that patience, with 
which nothing but a life of hardship, and a certain obduracy 
of spirit, proceeding from a contempt of existence, could have 
endowed me. 

" After this trial was over, I was loosed from my bonds, and 
set in the midst of a circle, who shouted the cry of victory, and 
my aged friend brought me a bowl of water, mixed with some 
spirits, to drink. He took me then home to his hut, and laid 
applications of different simples to my mangled body. When I 
was so well recovered as to be able to walk abroad, he called 
together certain elders of his tribe, and acknowledging me for 
his son, gave me a name, and fastened round my neck a belt of 
wampum. "It is thus," said he, "that the valiant are tried, and 
thus are they rewarded ; for how shouldst thou be as one of us, 
if thy soul were as the soul of little men ; he is only worthy 
to lift the hatchet with the Cherokees, to whom shame is more 
intolerable than the stab of the knife, or the burning of the fire." 



CHAPTER XIX. 

A continuation of the stranger's story. 

" In this society I lived till about a year and a half ago ; and 
it may seem extraordinary to declare, yet it is certainly true, 
that during the life of the old man who had adopted ine, even 
had there been no legal restraint on my return to my native 
country, scarce any inducement could have tempted me to leave 
the nation to which he belonged, except perhaps the desire of 
revisiting a parent, and a sister, whom I had left in England, 
sunk beneath that ignominy which the son and the brother had 
drawn on his guiltless connexions. When we consider the per- 
fect freedom subsisting in this rude and simple state of society, 
where rule is only acknowledged for the purpose of immediate 
utility to those who obey, and ceases whenever that purpose of 
subordination is accomplished ; where greatness cannot use op- 
pression, nor wealth excite envy ; where the desires are native 
to the heart, and the languor of satiety is unknown ; where, if 
there is no refined sensation of delight, there is also no ideal 
source of calamity ; we shall the less wonder at the inhabitants 



328 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

feeling no regret for the want of those delicate pleasures of 
which a more polished people is possessed. Certain it is, that 
I am far from being a single instance, of one who had even at- 
tained maturity in Europe, and yet found his mind so accommo- 
dated, by the habit of a few years, to Indian manners, as to leave 
that country with regret. The death of my parent by adoption 
loosened, indeed, my attachment to it ; that event happened a 
short time before my departure from America. 

" The composure with which the old man met his dissolution, 
would have done honor to the firmest philosopher of antiquity. 
When he found himself near his end, he called me to him, to 
deliver some final instructions respecting my carriage to his 
countrymen ; he observed at the close of his discourse, that I 
retained so much of the European, as to shed some tears while 
he delivered it. ' In those tears,' said he, ' there is no wis- 
dom, for there is no use ; I have heard, that, in your country, 
men prepare for death, by thinking on it while they live ; this 
also is folly, because it loses the good, by anticipating the evil : 
we do otherwise, my son, as our fathers have better instructed 
us, and take from the evil by reflecting on the good. I have 
lived a thousand moons, without captivity, and without dis- 
grace ; in my youth I did not fly in battle, and in age, the tribes 
listened while I spake. If I live in another land after death, I 
shall remember these things with pleasure ; if the present is our 
only life, to have done thus is to have used it well. You have 
sometimes told me of your countrymen's account of a land of 
souls ; but you were a young man when you came among us, 
and the cunning among them may have deceived you ; for the 
children of the French king call themselves after the same God 
that the English do ; yet their discourses concerning him cannot 
be true, because they are opposite one to another. Each says, 
that God shall burn the others with fire ; which could not happen 
if both were his children. Besides, neither of them act as the 
sons of Truth, but as the sons of Deceit ; they say their God 
heareth all things, yet do they break the promises which they 
have called upon him to hear : but we know that the spirit within 
us listeneth, and what we have said in its hearing, that we do. If 
in another country the soul liveth, this witness shall live with it; 
whom it hath here reproached, it shall there disquiet ; whom it 
hath here honored, it shall there reward. Live, therefore, my 
son, as your father hath lived ; and die, as he dieth, fearless 
of death.' 

" With such sentiments, the old man resigned his breath, and 
I blushed for the life of Christians, while I heard them. 

" I was now become an independent member of the com- 
munity ; and my behaviour had been such, that I succeeded 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 329 

to the condition of my father, with the respect of a people 
amongst whom honor is attainable only by merit. But his 
death had dissolved that tie which gratitude, and indeed affec- 
tion for the old man, had on my heart ; and the scene of his 
death naturally awakened in me the remembrance of a father 
in England, whose age might now be helpless, and call for the 
aid of a long lost son to solace and support it. This idea, once 
roused, became every day more powerful, and at last I resolved 
to communicate it to the tribe, and tell them my purpose of 
returning home. 

" They heard me without surprise or emotion ; as indeed it is 
their great characteristic not to be easily awakened to either. 
1 You return,' said one of the elders, 'to a people who sell affec- 
tion to their brethren for money ; take, therefore, with you some 
of the commodities which their traders value. Strength, agility, 
and fortitude, are sufficient to us ; but with them they are of lit- 
tle use ; and he who possesses wealth, having no need of virtue, 
among the wealthy it will not be found. The last your father 
taught you, and amongst us you have practised ; the first he had 
not to leave, nor have we to bestow ; but take as many beaver 
skins as you can carry on your journey, that it may reach that 
parent whom, you tell us, you go to cherish.' 

" I returned thanks to the old man for his counsel, and to the 
whole tribe for their kindness ; and having, according to his ad- 
vice, taken a few of the furs they offered me, I resumed the tat- 
tered remains of the European dress which I had on when I 
escaped from the fort, and took the nearest road to one of our 
back settlements, which I reached without any accident, by the 
assistance of an Indian, who had long shown a particular attach- 
ment to me, and who now attended me on my way. ' Yonder 
smoke,' said my conductor, * rises from the dwellings of your 
countrymen. You now return to a world which I have heard you 
describe as full of calamity ; but the soul you possess is the 
soul of a man ; remember that to fortitude there is no sting in 
adversity, and in death no evil to the valiant.' 

" When he left me, I stood for some minutes, looking back, 
on one hand to the wilds I had passed, and on the other to the 
scenes of cultivation which European industry had formed ; and 
it may surprise you to hear, that though there wanted not some 
rekindling attachment to a people amongst whom my first breath 
had been drawn, and my youth spent, yet my imagination drew, 
on this side, fraud, hypocrisy, and sordid baseness ; while on 
that seemed to preside honesty, truth, and savage nobleness of 
soul. 

"When I appeared at the door of one of the houses in the set- 
tlement that was nearest me, I was immediately accosted by 

28* 



330 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

its master, who, judging from the bundle of furs which I carried, 
that I had been trading among the Indians, asked me, with much 
kindness, to take up my lodging with him. Of this offer I was 
very glad to accept, though I found a scarcity of words to thank 
my countryman for his favors ; as, from want of use, my re- 
membrance of the English language had been so much effaced, 
as not only to repress fluency, but even to prevent an ordinary 
command of expression ; and I was more especially at a loss for 
ceremonious phraseology, that department of language being un- 
known in the country whence I was just returned. My landlord 
was not a little astonished when I could at last make shift to in- 
form him of my having passed so many years among the Indians. 
He asked a thousand questions about customs which never ex- 
isted, and told me of a multitude of things, of which all the time I 
had lived in that country, I had never dreamed the possibility. In- 
deed, from the superiority of his expression, joined to that fund 
of supposed knowledge which it served to communicate, a by- 
stander would have been led to imagine, that he was describing, 
to some ignorant guest, a country with whose manners he had 
been long conversant, and among whose inhabitants he had 
passed the greatest part of his life. At length, however, his 
discourse centred upon the fur trade, and naturally glided from 
that to an offer of purchasing my beaver skins. These things, I 
was informed by my courteous entertainer, had fallen so much 
in their price of late, that the traders could hardly defray their 
journey in procuring them ; that himself had lost by some late 
bargains in that way ; but that to oblige a stranger, the singular- 
ity of whose adventures had interested him in his behalf, he 
would give me the highest price at which he had heard of their 
being sold for a long time past. This I accepted without hesi- 
tation, as I had neither language nor inclination for haggling ; 
and having procured as much money by the bargain as, I ima- 
gined, would more than carry me to a seaport, I proceeded on 
my journey, accompanied by an inhabitant of Williamsburg, who 
was returned from an annual visit to a settlement on the back- 
frontiers, which he had purchased in partnership with another, 
who constantly resided upon it. He seemed to be naturally of 
an inquisitive disposition ; and having learned from my former 
landlord, that I had lived several years with the Indians, tor- 
mented me, all the while our journey lasted, with interrogatories 
concerning their country and manners. But as he was less opin- 
ionative of his own knowledge in the matter than my last Eng- 
lish acquaintance, I was the more easily prevailed on to satisfy 
his curiosity, though at the expense of a greater number of words 
than I could conveniently spare ; and, at last, he made himself 
entirely master of my story, from the time of leaving the regi- 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 331 

ment in which I had served, down to the day on which I de- 
livered my recital. When I mentioned my having sold my 
beaver skins for a certain sum, he started aside, and then lifting 
up his eyes in an ejaculatory manner, expressed his astonishment 
how a Christian could be guilty of such monstrous dishonesty, 
which, he said, was no better than one would have expected in 
a savage ; for that my skins were worth at least three times the 
money. I smiled at his notions of comparative morality, and 
bore the intelligence with a calmness that seemed to move his 
admiration. He thanked God that all were not so ready to take 
advantage of ignorance or misfortune, and cordially grasping my 
hand, begged me to make his house at Williamsburg my own, 
till such time as I could procure my passage to England." 



CHAPTER XX. 

Conclusion of the stranger's story. 

" Pursuant to this friendly invitation, I accompanied him to 
his house on our arrival in that place. For some days my land- 
lord behaved to me in the most friendly manner, and furnished 
me, of his own accord, with linen and wearing apparel ; several 
articles of which, though necessaries in the polished society of 
those amongst whom I now resided, my ideas of Indian simpli- 
city made me consider superfluous. 

" During this time, I frequently attended him at his store, 
while he was receiving consignments of goods, and assisted 
him and his servants in the disposal and assortment of them. 
At first he received this assistance as a favor ; but I could ob- 
serve that he soon began to look upon it as a matter of right, 
and called me to bear a hand, as he termed it, in a manner 
rather too peremptory for my pride to submit to. At last, when 
he ventured to tax me with some office of menial servility, I told 
him, I did not consider myself his dependant, any further than 
gratitude for his favors demanded, and refused to perform it. 
Upon which he let me know, that he looked upon me as his 
servant, and that, if I did not immediately obey his command, 
he would find a way to be revenged of me. This declaration 
heightened my resentment, and confirmed my refusal. I desired 
him to give me an account of what money he had expended, in 
those articles with which he had supplied me, that I might pay 
him out of the small sum I had in my possession, and, if thai 



332 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

was not sufficient, I would rather sell my new habiliments, and re- 
turn to my rags, than be indebted for a farthing to his generosity. 
He answered that he would clear accounts with me by and by. 
He did so, by making oath before a magistrate, that I was a 
deserter from his majesty's service, and, according to my own 
confession, had associated with the savages, enemies of the 
province. As I could deny neither of those charges, I was 
thrown into prison, where I should have been in danger of 
starving, had not the curiosity of some of the townsfolks induced 
them to visit me, when they commonly contributed some trifle 
towards my support ; till at length, partly, I suppose, from the 
abatement of my accuser's anger, and partly from the flagrancy 
of detaining me in prison without any provision for my mainte- 
nance, I was suffered to be enlarged ; and a vessel being then 
ready to sail for England, several of whose hands had deserted 
her, the master agreed to take me on board for the considera- 
tion of my working the voyage. For this, indeed, I was not in 
the least qualified as to skill ; but my strength and perseverance 
made up, in some operations, for the want of it. 

" As this was before the end of the war, the ship in which I 
sailed happened to be taken by a French privateer, who carried 
her into Brest. This, to me, who had already anticipated my 
arrival at home, to comfort the declining age of a parent, was 
the most mortifying accident of any I had hitherto met with ; 
but the captain, and some passengers who were aboard of us, 
seemed to make light of their misfortune. The ship was en- 
sured, so that in property the owners could suffer little ; as for 
ourselves, said they, the French are the politest enemies in the 
world, and, till we are exchanged, will treat us with that civil 
demeanor so peculiar to their nation. ' We are not now (ad- 
dressing themselves to me,) among savages, as you were.' 
How it fared with them I know not ; I, and other inferior mem- 
bers of the crew, were thrust into a dungeon, dark, damp, and 
loathsome ; where, from the number confined in it, and the want 
of proper circulation, the air became putrid to the most horrible 
degree ; and the allowance for our provision was not equal to 
two pence a day. To hard living I could well enough submit, 
who had been frequently accustomed, among the Cherokees, to 
subsist three or four days on a stack of Indian corn moistened 
in the first brook I lighted on ; but the want of air and exercise 
I could not so easily endure. I lost the use of my limbs, and 
lay motionless on my back, in a corner of the hole we were 
confined in, covered with vermin, and supported, in that wretch- 
ed state, only by the infrequent humanity of some sailor, who 
crammed my mouth with a bit of his brown bread, softened in 
stinking water. The natural vigor of my constitution, however, 



THE MAN OP THE WORLD. 333 

bore up against this complicated misery, till, upon the conclusion 
of the peace, we regained our freedom. But when I was set at 
liberty, I had not strength to enjoy it; and after my companions 
were gone, was obliged to crawl several weeks about the streets 
of Brest, where the charity of some well disposed Frenchmen 
bestowed now and then a trifle upon the pauvre sauvage, as I was 
called, till I recovered the exercise of my limbs, and was able 
to work my passage in a Dutch merchant ship bound for Eng- 
land. The mate of this vessel happened to be a Scotsman, 
who, hearing me speak the language of Britain, and having 
inquired into the particulars of my story, humanely attached 
himself to my service, and made my situation much more com- 
fortable than any I had for sometime experienced. We sailed 
from Brest with a fair wind, but had not been long at sea, till it 
shifted and blew pretty strong at east, so that we were kept for 
several days beating up the Channel ; at the end of which it 
increased to so violent a degree, that it was impossible for us 
to hold a course, and the ship was suffered to scud before the 
storm. At the close of the second day, the wind suddenly 
chopped about into a westerly point, though without any abate- 
ment of its violence ; and very soon after daybreak of the third, 
we were driving on the southwest coast of England, right to the 
leeward. The consternation of the crew became now so great, 
that if any expedient had remained to save us, it would have 
scarce allowed them to put it in practice. The mate, who 
seemed to be the ablest sailor on board, exhorted them at least 
to endeavor running the ship into a bay, which opened a little 
on our starboard quarter, where the shore was flat and sandy ; 
comforting them with the reflection, that they should be cast on 
friendly ground, and not among savages. His advice and encour- 
agement had the desired effect ; and notwithstanding the perils 
with which I saw myself surrounded, I looked with a gleam of 
satisfaction on the coast of my native land, which for so many 
years I had not seen. Unfortunately a ridge of rocks ran almost 
across the basin into which, with infinite labor, we were direct- 
ing our course ; and the ship struck upon them, about the dis- 
tance of half a league from the shore. All was now uproar and 
confusion. The longboat was launched by some of the crew, 
who, with the captain, got immediately into her, and brandishing 
their long knives, threatened with instant death any who should 
attempt to follow them, as she was already loaded beyond her 
burden. Indeed, there remained at this time in the ship only 
two sailors, the mate, and myself ; the first were washed over- 
board while they hung on the ship's side attempting to leap into 
the boat, and we saw them no more ; nor had their hardhearted 
companions a better fate ; they had scarcely rowed a cable's 



334 THE MAN 0E THE WORLD. 

length from the ship, when the boat overset, and every one on 
board her perished. There now remained only my friend the 
mate, and I, who, consulting a moment together, agreed to keep 
by the ship till she should split, and endeavor to save ourselves 
on some broken plank which the storm might drive on shore. 
We had just time to come to this resolution, when, by the vio- 
lence of a wave that broke over the ship, her mainmast went by 
the board, and we were swept off the deck at the same instant. 
My companion could not swim ; but I had been taught that art 
by my Indian friends to the greatest degree of expertness. I 
was, therefore, more uneasy about the honest Scotsman's fate 
than my own, and, quitting the mast, of which I had caught hold 
in its fall, swam to the place where he first rose to the surface, 
and catching him by the hair, held his head tolerably above 
water, till he was able so far to recollect himself, as to cling by 
a part of the shrouds of our floating mainmast, to which I bore 
him. In our passage to the shore on this slender float, he 
was several times obliged to quit his hold, from his strength 
being exhausted ; but I was always so fortunate as to be able 
to replace him in his former situation, till, at last, we were thrown 
upon the beach, near to the bottom of that bay at the mouth of 
which our ship had struck. I was not so much spent by my 
fatigue, but that I was able to draw the mate safe out of the 
%vater, and advancing to a crowd of people whom I saw assem- 
bled near us, began to entreat their assistance for him in very 
pathetic terms, when, to my utter astonishment, one of them 
struck at me with a bludgeon, while another, making up to my 
fellow-sufferer, would have beat out his brains with a stone, if I 
had not run up nimbly behind him, and dashed it from his uplifted 
hand. This man happened to be armed with a hanger, which 
he instantly drew, and made a furious stroke at my head. I 
parried his blow with my arm, and, at the same time, seized his 
wrist, gave it so sudden a wrench, that the weapon dropped to 
the ground. I instantly possessed myself of it, and stood astride 
my companion with the aspect of an angry lionness guarding her 
young from the hunter. The appearance of strength and fierce- 
ness which my figure exhibited, kept my enemies a little at bay, 
when, fortunately, we saw advancing a body of soldiers, headed 
by an officer, whom a gentleman of humanity in the neighbor- 
hood had prevailed on to march to the place for the preservation 
of any of the crew whom the storm might spare, or any part of 
the cargo that might chance to be thrown ashore. At sight of 
this detachment the crowd dispersed, and left me master of the 
field. The officer very humanely took charge of my companion 
and me, brought us to his quarters in the neighborhood, and 
accommodated me with these very clothes which I now have 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 335 

on. From him I learned, that those Englishmen, who (as our 
mate by way of comfort observed) were not savages, had the 
idea transmitted them from their fathers, that all wrecks became 
their property by the immediate hand of God, and as in their 
apprehension that denomination belonged only to ships from 
which there landed no living thing, their hostile endeavors 
against the Scotsman's life and mine, proceeded from a desire 
of bringing our vessel into that supposed condition. 

" After having weathered so many successive disasters, I am 
at last arrived near the place of my nativity ; fain would I hope, 
that a parent and a sister, whose tender remembrance, mingled 
with that of happier days, now rushes on my soul, are yet alive 
to pardon the wanderings of my youth, and receive me after 
those hardships to which its ungoverned passions have sub- 
jected me. Like the prodigal son, I bring no worldly wealth 
along with me ; but I return with a mind conscious of its 
former errors, and seeking that peace which they destroyed. 
To have used prosperity well, is the first favored lot of Heaven; 
the next is his, whom adversity has not smitten in vain." 



CHAPTER XXI. 

Bolton and his companion meet with an uncommon adventure. 

When the stranger had finished his narration, Bolton ex- 
pressed, in very strong terms, his compassion for the hardships 
he had suffered. " I do not wish," said he, " to be the prophet 
of evil ; but if it should happen, that your expectations of the 
comfort your native country is to afford you be disappointed, it 
will give me the truest pleasure to shelter a head on which so 
many vicissitudes have beat, under that roof of which providence 
has made me master." He was interrupted by the trampling 
of horses at a distance ; his fears, wakeful at this time, were 
immediately roused ; the stranger observed his confusion. — 
" You seem uneasy, Sir," said he ; " but they are not the re- 
treats of houseless poverty like this, that violence and rapine 
are wont to attack." — " You mistake," answered Harry, who 
was now standing at the door of the chapel, " the ground of my 
alarm ; at present I have a particular reason for my fears, which 
is nearer to me than my own personal safety." He listened ; 
the noise grew fainter ; but he marked, by the light of the moon, 
which now shone out again, the direction whence it seemed to 



336 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

proceed, which was over an open part of the common. " They 
are gone this way," he cried, with an eagerness of look, grasp- 
ing one of the knotty branches which the soldier's fire had 
spared. " If there is danger in your way," said his companion, 
" you shall not meet it alone." They sallied forth together. 

They had not proceeded above a quarter of a mile, when 
they perceived, at a distance, the twinkling of lights in motion : 
their pace was quickened at the sight ; but in a few minutes 
those were extinguished, the moon was darkened by another 
cloud, and the wind began to howl again. They advanced, 
however, on the line in which they imagined the lights to have 
appeared, when in one of the pauses of the storm, they heard 
shrieks, in a female voice, that seemed to issue from some 
place but a little way off. They rushed forward in the direc- 
tion of the sound, till they were stopped by a pretty high wall. 
Having made shift to scramble over this, they found themselves 
in the garden belonging to a low-built house, from one of the 
windows of which they saw the glimmer of a candle through the 
openings of the shutters, but the voice had ceased, and all was 
silent within. Bolton knocked at the door, but received no an- 
swer ; when, suddenly, the screaming was repeated with more 
violence than before. He and his companion now threw them- 
selves with so much force against the door, as to burst it open. 
They rushed into the room whence the noise proceeded ; when 
the first object that presented itself to Bolton was Miss Sindall 
on her knees, her clothes torn and her hair dishevelled, with 
two servants holding her arms, imploring mercy of Sir Thomas, 
who was calling out in a furious tone, "Damn your pity, rascals, 
carry her to bed by force." — " Turn, villain !" cried Harry, 
" turn and defend yourself." Sindall started at the well known 
voice, and pulling out a pistol, fired it within a few feet of the 
other's face ; he missed, and Bolton pushed forward to close 
with him ; when one of the servants, quitting Miss Sindall, 
threw himself between him and his master, and made a blow at 
his head with the butt-end of a hunting whip : this Harry catch- 
ed on his stick, and in the return levelled the fellow with the 
ground. His master now fired another pistol, which would 
have probably taken more effect than the former, had not Bol- 
ton's new acquaintance struck up the muzzle just as it went 
ofF, the ball going through a window at Harry's back. The 
baronet had his sword now drawn in the other hand, and, changing 
the object of his attack, he made a furious pass at the soldier, 
who parried it with his hanger. At the second lounge, Sir 
Thomas's violence threw him on the point of his adversary's 
weapon, which entered his body a little below the breast. He 
staggered a few paces backwards, and clapping one hand on 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 337 

the place, leaned with the other on a table that stood behind 
him, and cried out that he was a dead man. M My God !" ex- 
claimed the stranger, " are not you Sir Thomas Sindall ?" — 
" Sir Thomas Sindall !" cried a woman who now entered half 
dressed, with the mistress of the house. " It is, it is Sir Tho- 
mas Sindall," said the landlady ; " for God's sake do his honor 
no hurt." — "I hope," continued the other with a look of earnest 
wildness, "you have not been a-bed with that young lady !" — 
She waited not a reply — " for as sure as there is a God in hea- 
ven she is your own daughter !" Her hearers stood aghast as 
she spoke. Sindall stared wildly for a moment, then giving a 
deep groan, fell senseless at the feet of the soldier, who had 
sprung forward to support him. What assistance the amaze- 
ment of those about him could allow, he received ; and in a 
short time began to recover ; but as he revived, his wound bled 
with more violence than before. A servant was instantly dis- 
patched for a surgeon ; in the meantime, the soldier procured 
some lint, and gave it a temporary dressing. He was now 
raised from the ground, and supported in an elbowchair ; he 
bent his eyes fixedly on the woman : " Speak," said he, "while 
I have life to hear thee." On the faces of her audience sat 
astonishment, suspense and expectation ; and a chilly silence 
prevailed, while she delivered the following recital. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

A prosecution of the discovery mentioned in the last chapter. 

" I have been a wicked woman ; may God and this lady 
forgive me ! but heaven is my witness, that I was thus far on 
my way to confess all to your honor," turning to Sir Thomas 
Sindall, "that I might have peace in my mind before I died. 

" You will remember, Sir, that this young lady's mother was 
delivered of her at the house of one of your tenants, where Mr. 
Camplin (I think that was his name) brought her for that pur- 
pose. I was intrusted with the charge of her as her nurse, 
along with some trinkets such as young children are in use to 
have, and a considerable sum of money, to provide any other 
necessaries she should want At that very time I had been 
drawn in to associate with a gang of pilfering vagrants, whose 
stolen goods I had often received into my house, and helped to 
dispose of. Fearing therefore that I might one day be brought 

29 



338 THE MAN 0E THE WORLD. 

to an account for my past offences, if I remained where I was, 
and having at the same time the temptation of such a booty be- 
fore me, I formed a scheme for making off with the money and 
trinkets I had got from Mr. Camplin : it was to make things 
appear as if my charge and I had been lost in crossing the river, 
which then happened to be in flood. For this purpose, I daubed 
my own cloak, and the infant's wrapper, with mud and sleech, 
and left them close to the overflow of the stream, a little below 
the common ford. With shame I confess it, as I have often 
since thought on it with horror, T was more than once tempted 
to drown the child, that she might not be a burden to me in my 
flight ; but she looked so innocent and sweet, while she clasped 
my fingers in her little hand, that I had not the heart to execute 
my purpose. 

" Having endeavored in this manner to account for my dis- 
appearing, so as to prevent all further inquiry, I joined a party 
of those wretches, whose associate I had sometime been, and 
left that part of the country altogether. By their assistance, too, 
I was put on a method of disguising my face so much, that had 
any of my acquaintance met me, of which there was very little 
chance, it would have been scarce possible for them to recollect 
it. My booty was put into the common stock, and the child 
was found useful to raise compassion when we went a-begging, 
which was one part of the occupation we followed. 

"After I had continued in this society the best part of a year, 
timing which time we met with various turns of fortune, a scheme 
was formed by the remaining part of us (for several of my com- 
panions had been banished, or confined to hard labor in the 
interval) to break into the house of a wealthy farmer, who, we 
understood, had a few days before received a large sum of mo- 
ney on a bargain for the lease of an estate, which the proprieter 
had redeemed. Our project was executed with success ; but 
a quarrel arising about the distribution of the spoil, one of the 
gang deserted, and informed a neighboring justice of the whole 
transaction and the places of our retreat. I happened to be a 
fortune telling in this gentleman's house when his informer 
came to make the discovery ; and being closeted with one of 
the maid-servants overheard him inquiring for the justice, and 
desiring to have some conversation with him in private. I im- 
mediately suspected his design, and having got out of the house, 
eluded pursuit by my knowledge in the by-paths and private 
roads of the countiy. It immediately occurred to me to disbur- 
den myself of the child, as she not only retarded my flight, but 
was a mark by which I might be discovered ; but, abandoned 
as I had then become, I found myself attached to her by that 
sort of affection which women conceive for the infants they 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 339 

suckle. I would not, therefore, expose her in any of those un 
frequented places through which I passed in my flight, where 
her death must have been the certain consequence ; and, two 
or three times when I would have dropped her at some farmer's 
door I was prevented by the fear of discovery. At last I hap- 
pened to meet with your honor. You may recollect, Sir, that 
the same night on which this lady, then an infant, was found, a 
beggar asked alms of you at a farrier's door, where you stopped 
to have one of your horse's shoes fastened. I was that beggar ; 
and hearing from a boy who held your horse that your name 
was Sir Thomas Sindall, and that you were returning to a 
hunting seat you had in the neighborhood, I left the infant on 
a narrow part of the road a little way before you, where it was 
impossible you should miss of finding her, and stood at the 
back of a hedge to observe your behaviour when you came up. 
I saw you make your servant pick up the child, and place her 
on the saddle before him. Then having, as I thought, suffi- 
ciently provided for her, by thus throwing her under the protec- 
tion of her father, I made off as fast as I could, and continued 
my flight, till I imagined I was out of the reach of detection. 
But being some time after apprehended on suspicion, and not 
able to give a good account of myself, I was advertised in the 
papers, and discovered to have been an accomplice in commit- 
ting that robbery I mentioned, for which some of the gang had 
been already condemned and executed. I was tried for the 
crime, and was cast for transportation. Before I was put on 
board the ship that was to carry me and several others abroad, 
I wrote a few lines to your honor, acquainting you with the cir- 
cumstances of my behaviour towards your daughter : but this, 
I suppose, as it was intrusted to a boy who used to go on er- 
rands for the prisoners, has never come to your hands. Not 
long ago I returned from my transportation, and betook myself 
to my old course of life again. But I happened to be seized 
with the smallpox, that raged in a village I passed through ; 
and partly from the violence of the distemper, partly from the 
want of proper care in the first stages of it, was brought so low, 
that a physician, whose humanity induced him to visit me, gave 
me over for lost. I found that the terrors of death on a sick 
bed had more effect on my conscience than all the hardships I 
had formerly undergone, and I began to look back with the 
keenest remorse on a life so spent as mine had been. It 
pleased God, however, that I should recover ; and I have since 
endeavored to make some reparation for my past offences by 
my penitence. 

"Among other things, I often reflected on what I had done 
with regard to your child ; and being some days ago accident- 



340 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

ally near Sindall park, I went thither, and tried to learn some- 
thing of what had befallen her. I understood from some of the 
neighbors, that a young lady had been brought up from her in- 
fancy with your aunt, and was said to be the daughter of a friend 
of yours, who had committed her to your care at his death. 
But, upon inquiring into the time of her being brought to your 
house, I was persuaded that she must be the same I had con- 
jectured, imputing the story of her being another's to your de- 
sire of concealing that she was yours, which I imagined you 
had learned from the letter I wrote before my transportation ; 
till meeting at a house of entertainment, with a servant of your 
honor's, he informed me in the course of our conversation, that 
it was reported you were going to be married to the young lady 
who had lived so long in your family. On hearing this I was 
confounded, and did not know what to think ; but, when I be- 
gan to fear that my letter had never reached you, I trembled at 
the thought of what my wickedness might occasion, and could 
have no ease in my mind, till I should set out for Bilswood to 
confess the whole affair to your honor. I was to-night over- 
taken by the storm near this house, and prevailed on the land- 
lady, though it seemed much against her inclination, to permit me 
to take up my quarters here. About half an hour ago, I was 
waked with the shrieks of some person in distress, and upon 
asking the landlady, who lay in the same room with me, what 
was the matter, she bid me be quiet and say nothing ; for it was 
only a worthy gentleman of her acquaintance who had overtaken 
a young girl, a foundling he had bred up, that had stolen a sum 
of money from his house, and run away with one of his footmen. 
At the word foundling, I felt a kind of something I cannot de- 
scribe, and I was terrified when I overheard some part of your 
discourse, and guessed what your intentions were ; I rose, 
therefore, in spite of the landlady, and had got thus far dressed, 
when we heard the door burst open, and presently a noise of 
fighting above stairs. Upon this we ran up together ; and to 
what has happened since this company has been witness." 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 341 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Miss Sindall discovers another relation. 

It is not easy to describe the sensations of Sindall or Lucy, 
when the secret of her birth was unfolded. In the counte- 
nance of the last were mingled the indications of fear and pity, 
joy and wonder ; while her father turned upon her an eye of 
tenderness chastened with shame. " Oh ! thou injured inno- 
cence !" said he, " for I know not how to call thee child, canst 
thou forgive those — Good God ! Bolton, from what hast thou 
saved me !" Lucy was now kneeling at his feet. — " Talk not, 
Sir," said she, " of the errors of the past ; methinks I look on 
it as some horrid dream, which it dizzies my head to recollect. 
My father! — Gracious God! have I a father? — I cannot speak; 
but there are a thousand things that beat here! — Is there another 
parent to whom I should also kneel?" Sir Thomas cast up a 
look to heaven, and his groans stopped for a while his utterance, 
— " Oh ! Harriet ! if thou art now an angel of mercy, look down 
and forgive the wretch that murdered thee !" " Harriet !" 
exclaimed the soldier, starting at the sound, "what Harriet? 
what Harriet?" Sindall looked earnestly in his face — "Oh! 
heavens!" he cried, "art thou — sure thou art! — Annesly? — 
look not, look not on me — thy sister — but I shall not live for thy 
upbraidings — thy sister was the mother of my child ! Thy father 
— to what does this moment of reflection reduce me? — thy father 
fell with his daughter, the victims of that villany which overcame 
her innocence !" Annesly looked sternly upon him, and angei 
for a moment inflamed his cheeks ; but it gave way to softei 
feelings. "What! both? both?" — and he burst into tears. 

Bolton now stepped up to this new-acquired friend. " I am," 
said he, " comparatively but a spectator of this fateful scene ; let 
me endeavor to comfort the distress of the innocent, and alle- 
viate the pangs of the guilty. In Sir Thomas Sindall's present 
condition resentment would be injustice. See here, my friend," 
pointing to Lucy, " a mediatrix, who forgets the man in the 
father." Annesly gazed upon her. " She is, she is," he cried, 
" the daughter of my Harriet ; — that eye, that lip, that look of 
sorrow !" He flung himself on her neck ; Bolton looked on 
them enraptured ; and even the languor of Sindall's face was 
crossed with a gleam of momentary pleasure. 

Sir Thomas's servant now arrived, accompanied by a surgeon, 
who, upon examining and dressing his wound, was of opinion, 

29* 



342 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

that in itself it had not the appearance of imminent danger, but 
that from the state of his pulse he was apprehensive of a super- 
vening fever. He ordered him to be put to bed, and his room 
to be kept as quiet as possible. As this gentleman was an ac- 
quaintance of Bolton's, the latter informed him of the state in 
which Sir Thomas's mind must be from the discoveries that the 
preceding hour had made to him. Upon which the surgeon beg- 
ged that he might, for the present, avoid seeing Miss Sindall or 
Mr. Annesly, or talking with any one on the subject of those 
discoveries ; but he could not prevent the intrusion of thought ; 
and not many hours after, his patient fell into a roving sort of 
slumber, in which he would often start and mutter the words 
Harriet, Lucy, murder and incest ! 

Bolton and Lucy now enjoyed one of those luxurious inter- 
views, which absence, and hardships during that absence, pro- 
cure to souls formed for each other. She related to him all her 
past distresses, of which my readers have been already inform- 
ed, and added the account of that night's event, part of which 
only they have heard. Herself indeed, was not then mistress 
of it all ; the story at large was this : 

The servant, whose attachment to her I have formerly men- 
tioned, had been discovered, in that conference which produced 
her resolution of leaving Bilswood, by Mrs. Boothby's maid, 
who immediately communicated to her mistress her suspicions 
of the plot going forward between Miss Sindall and Robert. 
Upon this the latter was severely interrogated by his master, and 
being confronted with Sukey, who repeated the words she had 
overheard of the young lady and him, he confessed her intention 
of escaping by his assistance. Sir Thomas, drawing his sword, 
threatened to put him instantly to death, if he did not expiate his 
treachery by obeying implicitly the instructions he should then 
receive ; these were, to have the horse saddled at the hour 
agreed on, and to proceed, without revealing to Miss Sindall 
the confession he had made, on the road which Sir Thomas 
now marked out for him. With this, after the most horrid de- 
nunciations of vengeance in case of a refusal, the poor fellow 
was fain to comply ; and hence his terror when they were leav- 
ing the house. They had proceeded but just so far on their way, 
as Sir Thomas had thought proper for the accomplishment of 
his design, when he, with his valet de chambre and another ser- 
vant, who were confidants of their master's pleasures, made up 
to them, and after pretending to upbraid Lucy for the impru- 
dence and treachery of her flight, he carried her to this house 
of one of those profligate dependants, whom his vices had made 
necessary on his estate. 

When she came to the close of this recital, the idea of tha 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 343 

relation in which she stood to him from whom those outrages 
were suffered, stopped her tongue ; she blushed and faltered. 
" This story," said she, " I will now forget for ever, except to 
remember that gratitude which I owe to you." During the 
vicissitudes of her narration, he had clasped her hand with a 
fearful earnestness, as if he had shared the dangers she related ; 
he pressed it to his lips. " Amidst my Lucy's present moment- 
ous concerns, I would not intrude my own ; but I am selfish in 
the little services she acknowledges ; I look for a return." She 
blushed again — " I have but little art," said she, " and cannot 
disguise my sentiments ; my Henry will trust them on a subject 
which at present I know his delicacy will forbear." 

Annesly now entered the room, and Bolton communicated 
the trust he was possessed of in his behalf, offering to put him 
in immediate possession of the sum which Mr. Rawlinson had 
bequeathed to his management, and which that gentleman had 
more than doubled since the time it had been left by Annesly's 
unfortunate father. " I know not," said Annesly, " how to talk 
of those matters, unacquainted as I have been with the manners 
of polished and commercial nations ; when I have any particular 
destination for money, I will demand your assistance ; in the 
meantime, consider me as a minor, and use the trust already 
reposed in you to my advantage, and the advantage of those 
whom misfortune has allied to me." 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

Sir Thomas's situation. — The expression of his penitence. 

Next morning, Sindall, by the advice of his surgeon, was 
removed in a litter to his own house, where he was soon after 
attended by an eminent physician in aid of that gentleman's 
abilities. Pursuant to his earnest entreaties, he was accom- 
panied thither by Annesly and Bolton. Lucy, having obtained 
leave of his medical attendants, watched her father in the char- 
acter of nurse. 

They found, on their arrival, that Mrs. Boothby, having learn- 
ed the revolutions of the preceding night, had left the place, and 
taken the road towards London. " I think not of her," said Sir 
Thomas ; " but there is another person, whom my former con- 
duct banished from my house, whom I now wish to see in this 
assemblage of her friends, the worthy Mrs. Wistanly." Lucy 



344 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

undertook to write her an account of her situation, and to solicit 
her compliance with the request of her father. The old lady, 
who had still strength and activity enough for doing good, ac- 
cepted the invitation ; and the day following she was with them 
at Bilswood. 

Sir Thomas seemed to feel a sort of melancholy satisfaction 
in having the company of those he had injured assembled under 
his roof. When he was told of Mrs. Wistanly's arrival, he de- 
sired to see her, and taking her hand, " I have sent for you, 
Madam," said he, " that you may help me to unload my soul of 
the remembrance of the past." He then confessed to her that 
plan of seduction by which he had overcome the virtue of An- 
nesly, and the honor of his sister. " You were a witness," he 
concluded, " of the fall of that worth and innocence which it was 
in the power of my former crimes to destroy ; you are now come 
to behold the retribution of Heaven on the guilty. By that hand 
whom it commissioned to avenge a parent and a sister, I am cut 
off in the midst of my days." "I hope not, Sir," answered she ; 
"your life, I trust, will make a better expiation. In the punish- 
ments of the Divinity there is no idea of vengeance ; and the 
infliction of what we term evil, serves equally the purpose of 
universal benignity, with the dispensation of good." " I feel," 
replied Sir Thomas, " the force of that observation ; the pain of 
this wound ; the presentiment of death which it instils ; the 
horror with which the recollection of my incestuous passion 
strikes me ; all these are in the catalogue of my blessings ; 
they indeed take from me the world, but they give me myself." 

A visit from his physician interrupted their discourse ; that 
gentleman did not prognosticate so fatally for his patient ; he 
found the frequency of his pulse considerably abated, and ex- 
pressed his hopes that the succeeding night his rest would be 
better than it had been. In this he was not mistaken ; and next 
morning the doctor continued to think Sir Thomas mending ; 
but himself persisted in the belief that he should not recover. 

For several days, however, he appeared rather to gain ground 
than to lose it ; but afterwards he was seized with hectic fits at 
stated intervals ; and when they left him, he complained of a 
universal weakness and depression. During all this time Lucy 
was seldom away from his bedside ; from her presence he de- 
rived peculiar pleasure ; and sometimes, when he was so low as 
to be scarce able to speak, would mutter out blessings on her 
head, calling her his saint, his guardian angel ! 

After he had exhausted all the powers of medicine, under the 
direction of some of the ablest of the faculty, they acknowledged 
all further assistance to be vain, and one of them warned him, 
in a friendly manner, of his approaching end. He received this 



THE MAN OF THE WORLD, 345 

intelligence with the utmost composure, as an event which he 
had expected from the beginning, thanked the physician for his 
candor, and desired that his friends might be summoned around 
him, while he had yet strength enough left to bid them adieu. 

When he saw them assembled, he delivered into Bolton's 
hands a paper, which he told him was his will. " To this," said 
he, " I would not have any of those privy, who are interested in 
its bequests ; and therefore I had it executed at the beginning 
of my illness, without their participation. You will find your- 
self, my dear Harry, master of my fortune, under a condition, 
which, I believe, you will not esteem a hardship. Give me 
your hand ; let me join it to my Lucy's : there ! if Heaven 
receives the prayer of a penitent, it will pour its richest bless- 
ings upon you. 

" There are a few provisions in that paper, which Mr. Bolton, 
I know, will find a pleasure in fulfilling. Of what I have be- 
queathed to you, Mrs. Wistanly, the contentment you enjoy in 
your present situation makes you independent ; but I intend it as 
an evidence of my consciousness of your deserving. — My much 
injured friend, for he was once my friend," addressing himself 
to Annesly, "will accept of the memorial I have left him. — ■ 
Give me your hand, Sir ; receive my forgiveness for that wound 
winch the arm of Providence made me provoke from your's ; 
and when you look on a parent's and a sister's tomb, spare the 
memory of him whose death shall then have expiated the wrongs 
he did you !" — Tears were the only answer he received. — He 
paused for a moment ; then looking round with something in his 
eye more elevated and solemn, " I have now," said he, " dis- 
charged the world ; mine has been called a life of pleasure ; had 
I breath I could tell you how false the title is ; alas ! I knew not 
how to live. Merciful God ! I thank thee — thou hast taught mo 
how to die." 

At the close of this discourse, his strength, which he had ex- 
erted to the utmost, seemed altogether spent ; and he sunk down 
in the bed, in a state so like death, that for some time his attend- 
ants imagined him to have actually expired. When he did 
revive, his speech appeared to be lost : he could just make a 
feeble sign for a cordial that stood on the table near his bed ; 
he put it to his lips, then laid his head on the pillow, as if resign- 
ing himself to his fate. 

Lucy was too tender to bear the scene ; her friend, Mrs, 
Wistanly, led her almost fainting out of the room : " That 
grief, my dear Miss Sindall," said she, " is too amiable to bo 
blamed ; but your father suggested a consolation which your 
piety will allow ; of those who have led his life, how few have 
closed it like him I" 



346 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 



THE CONCLUSION. 



Early next morning Sir Thomas Sindall expired. The 
commendable zeal of the coroner prompted him to hold an in- 
quest on his body ; the jury brought in the verdict — Self-defence. 
But there was a judge in the bosom of Annesly, whom it was 
more difficult to satisfy : nor could he for a long time be brought 
to pardon himself that blow for which the justice of his country 
had acquitted him. 

After paying their last duty to Sir Thomas's remains the 
family removed to Sindall park. Mrs. Wistanly was prevailed 
on to leave her own house for a while, and preside in that of 
which Bolton was now master. His delicacy needed not the 
ceremonial of fashion to restrain him from pressing Miss Sin- 
dall's consent to their marriage, till a decent time had been 
yielded to the memory of her father. When that was elapsed, 
he received from her uncle that hand, which Sir Thomas had 
bequeathed him, and which mutual attachment entitled him to 
receive. 

Their happiness is equal to their merit : I am often a witness 
of it ; for they honor me with a friendship which I know not how 
I have deserved, unless by having few other friends. Mrs. 
Wistanly and I are considered as members of the family. 

But their benevolence is universal ; the country smiles around 
them with the effects of their goodness. This is indeed the only 
real superiority which wealth has to bestow ; I never envied 
riches so much, as since I have known Mr. Bolton. 

I have lived too long to be caught with the pomp of declama- 
tion, or the glare of an apothegm ; but I sincerely believe, that 
you could not take from them a virtue without depriving them 
of a pleasure. 



END OP THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE; 

A TALE. 
IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. 



INTRODUCTION 



I have formerly taken the liberty of holding some prefatory 
discourse with my readers, on the subject of those little histories 
which accident enables me to lay before them. This is proba- 
bly the last time I shall make use of their indulgence ; and even, 
if this introduction should be found superfluous, it may claim 
their pardon, as the parting address of one who has endeavored 
to contribute to their entertainment. 

I was favored last summer with a visit from a gentleman, a 
native of France, with whose father I had been intimately ac- 
quainted when I was last in that country. I confess myself par- 
ticularly delighted with an intercourse which removes the barrier 
of national distinction, and gives to the inhabitants of the world 
the appearance of one common family. I received, therefore, 
this young Frenchman into that humble shed, which Providence 
has allowed my age to rest in, with peculiar satisfaction ; and 
was rewarded, for any little attention I had in my power to show 
him, by acquiring the friendship of one, whom I found to inherit 
all that paternal worth which had fixed my esteem, about a dozen 
of years ago, at Paris. In truth, such attention always rewards 
itself; and, I believe, my own feelings, which I expressed to 
this amiable and accomplished Frenchmen, on his leaving Eng- 
land, are such as every one will own, whose mind is susceptible 
of feeling at all. He was profuse of thanks, to which my good 
offices had no title, but from the inclination that accompanied 
them. — " lei, Monsieur," said I, for he had used a language 
more accommodated than ours to the lesser order of sentiments, 
and I answered him, as well as long want of practice would 
allow me, in the same tongue. — " Ici, JMonsieur, obscur et in- 
connu, avec beaucoup de beinveillance, mais peu de pouvoir, je ne 
goule pas (Pun plaisir plus sincere, que de penser, qu 1 il y a, dans 
aucun coin du monde, un cosur honnUe qui se souvient de moi avec 
reconnoissance." 

30 



350 INTRODUCTION. 

But I am talking of myself, when I should be giving an account 
of the following papers. This gentleman, discoursing with me 
on the subject of those letters, the substance of which I had 
formerly published under the title of " The Man of the World," 
observed, that if the desire of searching into the records of pri- 
vate life were common, the discovery of such collection would 
cease to be wondered at. " We look," said he, " for the histo- 
ries of men among those of high rank ; but memoirs of sentiment 
and suffering may be found in every condition. 

" My father," continued my young friend, " made, since you 
saw him, an acquisition of that nature, by a whimsical accident. 
Standing one day at the door of a grocery shop making inquiry 
as to the lodgings of some person of his acquaintance, a little 
boy passed him, with a bundle of papers in his hand, which he 
offered for sale to the master of the shop, for the ordinary uses 
of the trade ; but they differed about the price, and the boy was 
ready to depart, when my father desired a sight of the papers, 
saying to the lad, with a smile, that perhaps he might deal with 
him for his book. Upon reading a sentence or two, he found a 
style much above that of the ordinary manuscripts of a grocery 
shop, and gave the boy his price, at a venture, for the whole. 
W r hen he got home, and examined the parcel, he found it to con- 
sist of letters put up, for the most part, according to their dates, 
which he committed to me, as having, he said, better eyes, and 
a keener curiosity than his. I found them to contain a story in 
detail, which, I believe, would interest one of your turn of think- 
ing a good deal. If you choose to undergo the trouble of the 
perusal, I shall take care to have them sent over to you by the 
first opportunity I can find, and if you will do the public the 
favor to digest them, as you did those of Annesly and his 
children" — My young Frenchman speaks the language of com- 
pliment ; but I do not choose to translate any further. It is 
enough to say, that I received his papers some time ago, and 
that they are those which I have translated, and now give to the 
world. I had, perhaps, treated them as I did the letters he men- 
tioned : but I found it a difficult task to reduce them into nar- 
rative, because they are made up of sentiment, which narrative 
would destroy. The only power I have exercised over them, 
is that of omitting letters, and passages of letters, which seem 
to bear no relation to the story I mean to communicate. In 
doing this, however, I confess I have been cautious. I love 
myself (and am apt, therefore, from a common sort of weakness, 
to imagine that other people love) to read nature in her smallest 
character, and am often more apprised of the state of the mind 
from very trifling, than from very important circumstances. 

As, from age and situation, it is likely I shall address the 



INTRODUCTION. 351 

public no more, I cannot avoid taking this opportunity of thank- 
ing it for the reception it has given to those humble pages which 
I formerly introduced to its notice. Unknown, and unpatronised, 
I had little pretensions to its favor, and little expectation of it. 
Writing, cr arranging the writings of others, was to me only a 
favorite amusement, for which a man easily finds both time and 
apology. One advantage I drew from it, which the humane may 
hear with satisfaction ; I often wandered from my own wo in 
tracing the tale of another's affliction ; and, at this moment, 
every sentence I write, I am but escaping a little further from 
the pressure of sorrow. 

Of the merit or faults of the composition in the volumes of 
which I have directed the publication, a small share only was 
mine ; for their tendency I hold myself entirely accountable, 
because, had it been a bad one, I had the power of suppressing 
them ; and from their tendency, I believe, more than any other 
quality belonging to them, has the indulgence of their readers 
arisen. For that indulgence I desire to return them grateful 
acknowledgments as an editor ; I shall be proud, with better 
reason, if there is nothing to be found in my publications that 
may forfeit their esteem as a man. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE; 

A TALE. 

IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. 

LETTER I. 

Julia de Roubignd to Maria de Roncilles. 

" The friendship of your Maria, misfortune can never deprive 
you of." These were the words with which you sealed that 
attachment we had formed in the blissful period of infancy. 
The remembrance of those peaceful days we passed together 
in the convent, is often recalled to my mind, amidst the cares of 
the present. Yet do not think me foolish enough to complain 
of the want of those pleasures which affluence gave us ; the 
situation of my father's affairs is such as to exclude luxury, but 
it allows happiness ; and were it not for the recollection of what 
he once possessed, which now and then intrudes itself upon 
him, he could scarce form a wish that were not gratified in the 
retreat he has found. 

You were wont to call me the little philosopher ; if it be 
philosophy to feel no violent distress from that change which 
the ill fortune of our family has made in its circumstances, I 
do not claim much merit from being that way a philosopher. 
From my earliest days, I found myself unambitious of wealth or 
grandeur, contented with the enjoyment of sequestered life, and 
fearful of the dangers which attend an exalted station. It is 
therefore more properly a weakness than a virtue in me, to be 
satisfied with my present situation. 

But, after all, my friend, what is it we have lost? We have 
exchanged the life of gayety, of tumults, of pleasure they call it, 
which we led in Paris, when my father was a rich man, for the 
pure, the peaceful, the truly happy scenes, which this place 
affords us, now he is a poor one. Dependance and poverty 
alone are suffered to complain ; but they know not how often 

30* 



354 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

greatness is dependant, and wealth is poor. Formerly, even 
during the very short space of the year we were at Belville, it 
was vain to think of that domestic enjoyment I used to hope for 
in the country ; we were people of too much consequence to 
be allowed the privilege of retirement, and except those luxuri- 
ous walks I sometimes found means to take — with you, my dear, 
I mean — the day was as little my own, as in the midst of our 
winter hurry in town. 

The loss of this momentous lawsuit has brought us down to 
the level of tranquillity. Our days are not now preoccupied 
by numberless engagements, nor our time anxiously divided for 
a rotation of amusements ; I can walk, read, or think, without 
the officious interruption of polite visiters ; and, instead of 
talking eternally of others, I find time to settle accounts with 
myself. 

Could we but prevail on my father to think thus ! Alas ! his 
mind is not formed for contracting into that narrow sphere which 
his fortune has now marked out for him. He feels adversity 
a defeat, to which the vanquished submit, with pride in their 
looks, but anguish in their hearts. He is cut off from the en- 
joyment of his present state, while he puts himself under the 
cruel necessity of dissembling his regret for the loss of the 
former. 

I can easily perceive how much my dearest mother is affect- 
ed by this. I see her constantly on the watch for every word 
and look that may discover his feelings ; and she has, too often, 
occasion to observe them unfavorable. She endeavors and 
commonly succeeds in her endeavor, to put on the appearance 
of cheerfulness ; she even tries to persuade herself that she 
has reason to be contented ; but, alas ! an effort to be happy, 
is always but an increase of our uneasiness. 

And what is left for your Julia to do 1 In truth, I fear I am 
of little service. My heart is too much interested in the scene 
to allow me that command over myself which would make me 
useful. My father often remarks that I look grave ; I smile 
(foolishly I fear), and deny it ; it is, I believe, no more than 
I used to do formerly ; but we were then in a situation that did 
not lead him to observe it. He had no consciousness in him- 
self to prompt the observation. 

How often do I wish for you, Maria, to assist me ! There 
is something in that smile of yours (I paint it to myself at this 
instant) which care and sorrow are unable to withstand ; besides 
the general effect produced by the intervention of a third person 
in a society, the members of which are afraid to think of one 
another's thoughts. Yet you need not answer this wish of 
mine : I know how impossible it is for you to come hither at 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 355 

present. Write to me as often as you can ; you will not ex- 
pect order in my letters, nor observe it in your answers ; I will 
speak to you on paper when my heart is full, and you will an- 
swer me from the sympathy of yours. 



LETTER II. 

Julia to Maria. 

I am to vex my Maria with an account of trifles, and those 
too, unpleasant ones ; but she has taught me to think that no- 
thing is insignificant to her in which I am concerned, and insists 
on participation at least, if she cannot alleviate ray distresses. 

I am every day more and more uneasy about the chagrin 
which our situation seems to give my father. A little incident 
has just now plunged him into a fit of melancholy, which all 
the attention of my mother, all the attempts at gayety which 
your poor Julia is constrained to make, cannot dissipate or 
overcome. 

Our old servant, Le Blanc, is your acquaintance ; indeed he 
very soon becomes acquainted with every friend and visiter of 
the family, his age prompting him to talk, and giving him the 
privilege of talking. 

Le Blanc had obtained permission, a few days since, to go 
on a visit to his daughter, who is married to a young fellow 
serving in the capacity of coachman at a gentleman's in the 
neighborhood of Belville. He returned last night, and, in his 
usual familiar manner, gave us an account of his expedition this 
morning. 

My father inquired after his daughter ; he gave some short 
answer as to her ; but I saw by his face that he was full of some 
other intelligence. He was standing behind my father, resting 
one hand on the back of his chair, he began to rub it violently, 
as if he would have given the wood a polish by the friction. " I 
was at Belville, Sir," said he. My father made no reply ; but 
Le Blanc had got over the difficulty of beginning, and was too 
much occupied by the idea of the scene, to forbear attempting 
the picture. 

" When I struck off the high road," said he " to go down by 
the old avenue, I thought I had lost my way ; there was not a 
tree to be seen. You may believe me as you please, Sir ; but 
I declare, I saw the rooks, that used to build there, in a great 



356 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

flock over my head, croaking for all the world as if they had 
been looking for the avenue too. Old Lasune's house, where 
you, Miss, (turning to me) would frequently stop in your walks, 
was pulled down, except a single beam at one end, which now 
serves for a rubbing post for some cattle that graze there ; and 
your roan horse, Sir, which the marquis had of you in a present, 
when he purchased Belville, had been turned out to grass among 
the rest, it seems ; for there he was, standing under the shade 
of the wall ; and when I came up, the poor beast knew me, as 
any christian would, and came neighing up to my side as he 
was wont to do. I gave him a piece of bread I had put in my 
pocket in the morning, and he followed me for more, till I 
reached the very gate of the house ; I mean what was the gate, 
when I knew it ; for there is now a rail run across, with a small 
door which Le Sauvre told me they call Chinese. But, after 
all, the marquis is seldom there to enjoy these fine things ; he 
lives in town, Le Sauvre says, eleven months in the year, and 
only comes down to Belville, for a few weeks, to get money to 
spend in Paris." 

Here Le Blanc paused in his narration. I was afraid to look 
up to see its effect upon my father ; indeed, the picture which 
the poor fellow had innocently drawn, had too much effected 
myself. Lasune's house ! My Maria remembers it ; but she 
knows not all the ties which its recollection has upon me. 

I stole, however, a sidelong glance at my father. He 
seemed affected, but disdain was mixed with his tenderness ; 
he gathered up his features, as it were, to hide the effect of the 
recital. "You saw Le Sauvre, then?' said he coolly. — "Yes," 
answered Le Blanc ; " but he is wonderfully altered since he 
was in your service, Sir. When T first discovered him, he was 
in the garden, picking some greens for his dinner ; he looked 
so rueful when he lifted up his head and saw me ! indeed I was 
little better myself, when I cast my eyes around. It was a sad 
sight to see ! for the marquis keeps no gardener, except Le 
Sauvre himself, who has fifty things to do besides, and only 
hires another hand or two, for the time he resides at Belville in 
the summer. The walks that used to be trimmed so nicely, are 
covered with molehills ; the hedges are full of great holes, and 
Le Sauvre's chickens were basking in the flower-beds. He 
took me into the house, and his wife seemed glad to see her 
old acquaintance, and the children clambered up to kiss me, 
and Jeanot asked me about his godmother, meaning you, mad- 
am, and his little sister inquired after her handsome mistress, as 
she used to call you, Miss. "I have got," said Nannette, "two 
new mistresses, that are finer dressed than she, but they are 
much prouder, and not half so pretty V 1 meaning two of the 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 357 

marquis's daughters, who were at Belville for a few days, when 
their father was last there. I smiled to hear the girl talk so, 
though Heaven knows my heart was sad. Only three of the 
rooros are furnished, in one of which Le Sauvre and his family 
were sitting ; the rest had their windows darkened with cob- 
webs, and they echoed so, when Le Sauvre and I walked through 
them, that I shuddered as if I had been in a monument." 

" It is enough, Le Blanc," said my mother in a sort of whis- 
per. My father asked some indifferent question about the 
weather. I sat, I know not how, looking piteously, I suppose ; 
for my mother tapped my cheek with the word child ! emphat- 
ically pronounced. I started out of the reverie, and finding 
myself unable to feign a composure which I did not feel, walk- 
ed out of the room to hide my emotion. When I got to my 
own chamber, I felt the full force of Le Blanc's description, but 
to me it was not painful ; it is not on hearts that yield the soon- 
est that sorrow has the most powerful effects ; it was but giving 
way to a shower of tears, and I could think of Belville with 
pleasure, even in the possession of another. They may cut its 
trees, Maria, and alter its walks, but cannot so deface it as to 
leave no traces for the memory of your Julia : — Methinks I 
should hate to have been born in a town ; when I say my native 
brook, or my native hill, I talk of friends of whom the remem- 
brance warms my heart. To me, even to me, who have lost 
their acquaintance, there is something delightful in the melan- 
choly recollection of their beauties ; and here, I often wander 
out to the top of a little broom-covered knoll, merely to look 
towards the quarter where Belville is situated. 

It is otherwise with my father. On Le Blanc's recital he 
has brooded these three days. The effect it had on him is still 
visible in his countenance ; and but an hour ago, while my mo- 
ther and I were talking of some other subject, in which he was 
joined by monosyllables, he said, all at once, that he had some 
thoughts of sending to the marquis for his roan horse again, 
since he did not choose to keep him properly. 

They who have never known prosperity can hardly be said 
to be unhappy ; it is from the remembrance of joys we have 
lost, that the arrows of affliction are^ pointed. Must we then 
tremble, my friend, in the possession of present pleasures, from 
the fear of their embittering futurity 1 or does heaven thus teach 
us that sort of enjoyment, of which the remembrance is immor- 
tal ] Does it point out those as the happy, who can look back 
on their past life, not as the chronicle of pleasure, but as the 
record of virtue ? 

Forgive my preaching ; I have leisure and cause to preach. 
You know how faithfully, in every situation, I am yours. 



358 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER III. 

Julia to Maria. 

" I will speak to you on paper when my heart is full." — 
Misfortune thinks itself entitled to speak, and feels some con- 
solation in the privilege of complaining, even where it has no- 
thing to hope from the utterance of complaint. 

Is it a want of duty in me to mention the weakness of a pa- 
rent ? Heaven knows the sincerity of the love I bear him ! 
Were I indifferent about my father, the state of his mind would 
not much disquiet me ; but my anxiety for his happiness carries 
me, perhaps, a blameable length in that censure which I cannot 
help feeling of his incapacity to enjoy it. 

My mother, too ! if he knew how much it preys upon her 
gentle soul to see the impatience with which he surfers adver- 
sity ! Yet, alas ! unthinking creature that I am, I judge of his 
mind by my own, and while I venture to blame his distress, I 
forget that it is entitled to my pity. 

This morning he was obliged to go to the neighboring village, 
to meet a procureur from Paris on some business, which, he told 
us, would detain him all day. The night was cold and stormy, 
and my mother and I looked often earnestly out, thinking on the 
disagreeable ride he would have on his return. " My poor hus- 
band !" said my mother, as the wind howled in the lobby be- 
neath. " But I have heard him say, mamma, that, in these 
little hardships, a man thinks himself unfortunate, but is never 
unhappy ; and you may remember he would always prefer 
riding to being driven in a carriage, because of the enjoyment 
which he told us he should feel from a clean room and a cheer- 
ful fire when he got home." At the word carriage, I could 
observe my mother sigh ; I was sorry it had escaped me ; but, 
at the end of my speech, we looked both of us at the hearth, 
which I had swept but the moment before ; the faggots were 
crackling in the fire, and my little Fidele lay asleep before it. 
He pricked up his ears and barked, and we heard the trampling 
of horses in the court. Your father is returned, cried my mo- 
ther ; and I ran to the door to receive him. " Julia, is it not ?" 
said he, (for the servant had not time to fetch us a light,) but 
he said it coldly. I offered to help him off with his surtout. 
"Softly, child," said he, "you pull my arm awry." It was a 
trifle, but I felt my heart swell when he said this. 

He entered the room ; my mother took his hand in her's. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 359 

" You are terribly cold, my love," said she, and she drew his 
chair nearer to the fire ; he threw aside his hat and whip, with- 
out speaking a word. In the centre of the table, which was 
covered for supper, I had placed a bowl of milk, dressed in a 
way I knew he liked, and had garnished it with some artificial 
flowers, in the manner we used to have our desserts done at 
Belville. He fixed his eyes on it, and I began to make ready 
my answer to a question I supposed he would ask, Who had 
trimmed it so nicely ? but he started hastily from his chair, 
and snatching up this little piece of ornament, threw it into the 
fire, saying, "We have now no title to finery." — This was too 
much for me ; it was foolish, very foolish, but I could help let- 
ting fall some tears. He looked sternly at me, and, muttering 
some words which I could not hear, walked out of the room, 
and slapped the door roughly behind him. I threw myself on 
my mother's neck, and wept outright. 

Our supper was silent and sullen ; to me the more painful, 
from the mortifying reverse which I felt from what I had expect- 
ed. My father did not taste the milk ; my mother asked him 
to eat of it with an affected ease in her manner ; but I observed 
her voice falter as she asked him. As for me, I durst not look 
him in the face ; I trembled every time the servant left the room ; 
there was a protection, even in his presence, which I could not 
bear to lose. The table was scarcely uncovered, when my fa- 
ther said he was tired and sleepy ; my mother laid hold of the 
opportunity, and offered to accompany him to their chamber. 
She bid me good night ; my father was silent ; but I answered 
as if addressing myself to both. 

Maria ! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have some- 
times painted to myself a husband — no matter whom — comfort- 
ing me amidst the distresses which fortune had laid upon us. 
I have smiled upon him through my tears, tears, not of anguish, 
but of tenderness ; — our children were playing around us, un- 
conscious of misfortune ; we had taught them to be humble, 
and to be happy ; — our little shed was reserved to us, and their 
smiles to cheer it. I have imagined the luxury of such a scene, 
and affliction became a part of my dream of happiness. 



Thus far I had written last night ; I found at last my body 
tired and drowsy, though my mind was ill disposed to obey it. 
I laid aside my pen, and thought of going to bed ; but I contin- 
ued sitting in my chair, for an hour after, in that state of languid 
thinking, which, though it has not strength enough to fasten on 
any single object, can wander without weariness over a thousand. 






360 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

The clock striking one, dissolved the enchantment ; I was then 
with my Maria, and I went to bed but to continue my dream 
of her. 

Why did I awake to anxiety and disquiet 1 Selfish ! that I 
should not bear, without murmuring, my proportion of both ! I 
met my mother in the parlor, with a smile of meekness and se- 
renity on her countenance ; she did not say a single word of 
last night's incident ; and I saw she purposely avoided giving 
me any opportunity of mentioning it ; such is the delicacy of 
her conduct with regard to my father. What an angel this wo- 
man is ! Yet I fear, my friend, she is a very woman in her 
sufferings. 

She was the only speaker of our company, while my father 
sat with us. He rode out soon after breakfast, and did not 
return till dinner time. I was almost afraid of his return, and 
was happy to see, from my window, somebody riding down the 
lane with him. This was a gentleman of considerable rank 
and fortune in our neighborhood, the Count Louis de Montau- 
ban. I do not know how it has happened, but I cannot recol- 
lect having ever mentioned him to you before. He is not one 
of those very interesting characters, which are long present with 
the mind ; yet his worth is universally acknowledged, and his 
friendship to my father, though of late acquisition, deserves 
more than ordinary acknowledgment from us. His history 
we heard from others, soon after our arrival here ; since our 
acquaintance began, we have had it, at different times, from 
himself; for though he has not much frankness about him to 
discover his secrets, he possesses a manly firmness, which does 
not shrink from the discovery. 

His father was only brother to the late Francis Count de 
Montauban ; his mother, the daughter of a noble family in 
Spain, died in childbed of him, and he was soon after deprived 
of his remaining parent, who was killed at a siege in Flanders. 
His uncle took, for some time, the charge of his education ; 
but, before he attained the age of manhood, he discovered, in 
the count's behaviour, a want of that respect which should have 
distinguished the relation from the dependant ; and after having, 
in vain, endeavored to assert it, he took the resolution of leaving 
France, and travelled a-foot into Spain, where he met with a 
very kind reception from the relations of his mother By their 
assistance, he was afterwards enabled to acquire a respectable 
rank in the Spanish army, and served, in a series of campaigns, 
with distinguished reputation. About a year ago, his uncle died 
unmarried ; by this event he succeeded to the family estate, 
part of which is situated in this neighborhood ; and since that I 
time, he has been generally here, employed in superintending 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 361 

it ; for which, it seems, there was the greater necessity, as the 
late count, who commonly lived at the old hereditary seat of his 
ancestors, had, for some of the last years of his life, been en- 
tirely under the dominion of rapacious domestics, and suffered 
his affairs in this quarter to run, under their guidance, into the 
greatest confusion. 

Though, in France, a man of fortune's residence at his coun- 
try seat is so unusual, that it might be supposed to enhance the 
value of such a neighbor, yet the circumstance of Montauban's 
great fortune was a reason, I believe, for my father shunning any 
advances towards his acquaintance. The count, at last, con- 
trived to introduce himself to us, (which, for what reason I know 
not, he seemed extremely anxious to do,) in a manner that flat- 
tered my father ; not by offering favors, but by asking one. He 
had led a walk through a particular part of his ground, along the 
course of a brook, which runs also through a narrow neck of my 
father's property, by the intervention of which the count's ter- 
ritory was divided. This stripe of my father's ground would 
have been a purchase very convenient for Montauban ; but, 
with that peculiar delicacy which our situation required, he never 
made the proposition of a purchase, but only requested that he 
might have leave to open a passage through an old wall, by 
which it was enclosed, that he might enjoy a continuation of that 
romantic path, which the banks of the rivulet afforded. His 
desire was expressed so politely, that it could not be refused. 
Montauban soon after paid a visit of thanks to my father on the 
occasion ; this last was pleased with an incident, which gave 
him back the power of conferring an obligation, and therefore 
I presume, looked on his new acquaintance with a favorable 
eye ; he praised his appearance to my mother and me ; and 
since that day, they have improved their acquaintance into a 
very cordial intimacy. 

In many respects, indeed, their sentiments are congenial. A 
high sense of honor is equally the portion of both. Montauban, 
from his long service in the army, and his long residence in 
Spain, carries it to a very romantic height. My father, from a 
sense of his situation, is now more jealous than ever of his. 
Montauban seems of a melancholy disposition. My father was 
far from being so once ; but misfortune has now given his mind 
a tincture of sadness. Montauban thinks lightly of the world, 
from principle. My father, from ill-usage, holds it in disgust. 
This last similarity of sentiment is a favorite topic of their dis- 
course, and their friendship seems to increase, from every mu- 
tual observation which they make. Perhaps it is from something 
amiss in our nature, but I have often observed the most strict of 
our attachments to proceed from an alliance of dislike. 

31 



362 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

There is something hard and unbending in the character of 
the count, which, though my father applauds it under the title 
of magnanimity, I own myself womanish enough not to like. 
There is a yielding weakness, which to me is more amiable 
than the inflexible right ; it is an act of my reason to approve of 
the last ; but my heart gives its suffrage to the first, without 
pausing to inquire for a cause. — I am awkward at defining ; 
you know what I mean ; the last is stern in Montauban, the first 
is smiling in Maria. 

Meantime, I wish to feel the most perfect gratitude for his 
unwearied assiduity to oblige my father and his family. When 
I think on his uncommon friendship, I try to forget that severity, 
which holds me somehow at a distance from him. 

Though I meant a description, I have scrawled through most 
of my paper without beginning one. I have made but some 
slight sketches of his mind ; of his person I have said nothing, 
which, from a woman to a woman, should have been mentioned 
the soonest. It is such as becomes a soldier, rather manly than 
handsome, with an air of dignity in his mien that borders on 
haughtiness. In short, were I to study for a sentence I should 
say, that Montauban was made to command respect from all, to 
obtain praise from most, but to engage the affections of few. 

His company to-day was of importance to us. By ourselves, 
every one's look seemed the spy on another's. We were con- 
scious of remembering what all affected to forget. Montauban's 
conversation reconciled us, without our being sensible of it. 

My father, who (as it commonly happens to the aggressor in 
those cases) had perhaps felt more from his own harshness, 
than either my mother or I, seemed happy to find an opportunity 
of being restored to his former familiarity. He was gayer, and 
more in spirits, than I have seen him for a long time past. He 
insisted on the count's spending the evening with us. Mon- 
tauban at first excused himself. He had told us, in the course 
of conversation, of his having appropriated the evening to busi- 
ness at home ; but my father would listen to no apology, and 
the other was at last overcome. He seems, indeed, to feel an 
uncommon attachment to my father, and to enjoy more pleasure 
in his company, than I should have expected him to find in the 
society of any one. 

You are now, in the account of correspondence, I do not 
know how deep in my debt. I mean not to ask regular returns ; 
but write to me, I entreat you, when you can ; and write longer 
letters than your last. Put down every thing, so it be what you 
feel at the time ; and tell every incident that can make me pre- 
sent with you, were it but the making up of a cap that pleases 
you. You see how much paper I contrive to blot with trifles. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 363 

LETTER IV. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

You saw, my friend, with what reluctance I left Spain, though 
it was to return to the country of my birth, to the inheritance of 
my fathers. I trembled when I thought what a scene of confu- 
sion and strange mismanagement of my uncle had left me to 
disentangle 5 but it required only a certain degree of fortitude 
to begin that business, and it was much sooner concluded than 
I looked for. I have now almost wrought myself out of work, 
and yet the situation is not so disgusting as I imagined. I have 
long learned to despise that flippancy which characterizes my 
countrymen ; yet, I know not how it is, they gain upon me in 
spite of myself; and while I resolve to censure, I am forced to 
smile. 

From Paris, however, I fled, as if it had been infested with a 
pestilence. Great towns certainly contain many excellent per- 
sons ; but vice and folly predominate so much, that a search 
after their opposites is beyond the limits of ordinary endurance ; 
and, besides the superiority of numbers, the first are ever perked 
up to view, while the latter are solicitous to avoid observation. 

In the country I found a different style of character. Here 
are impertinents who talk nonsense, and rogues who cheat where 
they can ; but they are somewhat nearer nature in both. I met 
with some female relations, who stunned me with receipts in 
cookery, and prescriptions in physic ; but they did not dictate 
to my taste in letters, or my judgment in philosophy. Ignor- 
ance I can bear without emotion ; but the affectation of learning 
gives me a fit of the spleen. 

I make, indeed, but an awkward figure among them ; for I 
am forced, by representing my uncle, to see a number of our 
family friends, whom I never heard of. These good people, 
however, bear with me wonderfully, and I am not laughed at, as 
you predicted. 

But they sometimes pester me with their civilities. It is their 
principle, that a man cannot be happy alone ; and they tire me 
with their company, out of pure good nature. I have endeavor- 
ed to undeceive them ; the greater part do not understand my 
hints ; those who do, represent me a sour ungracious being, 
whom Spain has taught pride and sullenness. This is well, 
and I hope the opinion will propagate itself apace. One must 
be somewhat hated, to be independent of folly. 






364 JULIA DE roubigne\ 

There is but one of my neighbors, whose temper I find at all 
congenial to my own. He has been taught by misfortune to be 
serious ; for that I love him ; but misfortune has not taught him 
to be humble ; for this I love him the more. There is a pride 
which becomes every man ; a poor man, of all others, should 
possess it. 

His name is Pierre de Roubigne. His family of that rank, 
which is perhaps always necessary to give a fixed liberality of 
sentiment. From the consequences of an unfortunate lawsuit, 
his circumstances became so involved, that he was obliged to 
sell his paternal estate, and retire to a small purchase he had 
made in this province, which is situated in the midst of my ter- 
ritories here. My steward pointed it out to me, as a thing it 
was proper for me to be master of, and hinted, that its owner's 
circumstances were such as might induce him to part with it. 
Such is the language of those devourers of land, who wish to 
make a wilderness around them, provided they are lords of it. 
For my part, I find much less pleasure in being the master of 
acres, than the friend of men. 

From the particulars of Mons. de Roubigne's story, which I 
learned soon after I came hither, I was extremely solicitous of 
his acquaintance ; but I found it not easy to accomplish my de- 
sire, the distance which great minds preserve in adversity, keep- 
ing him secluded from the world. By humoring that delicacy, 
which ruled him in his acceptance of a new acquaintance I have 
at last succeeded. He admits me as his guest, without the cere- 
mony which the little folks around us oblige me to endure from 
them. He does not think himself under the necessity of eter- 
nally talking to entertain me ; and we sometimes spend a morn- 
ing together, pleased with each other's society, though we do not 
Utter a dozen sentences. 

His youth has been enlightened by letters, and informed by 
travel ; but what is still more valuable, his mind has been early 
impressed with the principles of manly virtue : he is liberal in 
sentiment, but rigid in the feelings of honor. 

Were I to mark his failings, I might observe a degree of 
peevishness at mankind, which, though mankind may deserve, it 
is the truest independence not to allow them. He feels that 
chagrin at his situation, which constitutes the victory of misfor- 
tune over us — but I have not known misfortune, and am, there- 
fore, not entitled to observe it. 

His family consists of a wife and daughter, his only surviving 
child, who are equally estimable with himself. I have not, at 
present, time to describe them. I have given you this sketch 
of him, because I think he is such a man as might be the friend 
of my Segarva. There are so few in this trifling world, whose 



JULIA DE ItOUBIGNE. 365 

mutual excellences deserves mutual esteem, that the interven- 
tion of an hundred leagues should not bar their acquaintance ; 
and we increase the sense of virtue in ourselves, by the con 
sciousness of virtue in others. 



LETTER V. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

I. described to you, in my last, the father of that family, 
whose acquaintance I have chiefly cultivated since I came 
hither. His wife and daughter I promised to describe — at 
least such a promise was implied — perhaps I find pleasure in 
describing them — I have time enough at least for the descrip- 
tion — but no matter for the cause. 

Madame de Roubigne has still the remains of a fine woman; 
and, if I may credit a picture in her husband's possession, was 
in her youth remarkably handsome. She has now a sort of still- 
ness in her look, which seems the effect of resignation in adver- 
sity. Her countenance bears the marks of a sorrow, which we 
do not so much pity as revere ; she has yielded to calamity, 
while her husband has struggled under its pressure, and hence 
has acquired a composure, which renders that uneasiness I re- 
marked in him more observable by the contrast. I have been 
informed of one particular, which, besides the difference of sex, 
may, in a great measure account for this. She brought Rou- 
bigne a very considerable fortune, the greatest part of which 
was spent in that unfortunate lawsuit I mentioned. A con- 
sciousness of this makes the husband impatient under their 
present circumstances, from the very principle of generosity 
which leads the wife to appear contented. 

In her conversation, she is guided by the same evenness of 
temper. She talks of the world as of a scene where she is a 
spectator merely, in which there is something for virtue to praise, 
for charity to pardon ; and smooths the spleen of her husband's 
observations by some palliative remark which experience has 
taught her. 

One consolation she has ever at hand : Religion, the friend 
of calamity, she had cultivated in her most prosperous days. 
Affliction, however, has not driven her to enthusiasm ; her feel- 
ings of devotion are mild and secret, her expression gentle and 
charitable, I have always observed your outrageously religious, 

31* 



366 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

amidst their severity to their neighbors, manifest a discontent 
with themselves : spirits like Madame de Roubigne's have that 
inward peace which is easily satisfied with others. The raptur- 
ous blaze of devotion is more allied to vanity than to happiness; 
like the torch of the great, it distresses its owner, while it flames 
in the eyes of the public ; the other, like the rushlight of the 
cottager, cheers the little family within, while it seeks not to be 
seen of the world. 

But her daughter, her lovely daughter ! — with all the gentle- 
ness of her mother's disposition, she unites the warmth of her 
father's heart, and the strength of her father's understanding. 
Her eyes, in their silent state, (if I may use the term) give the 
beholder every idea of feminine softness ; when sentiment or 
feeling animates them, how eloquent they are ? When Rou- 
bigne talks, I hate vice, and despise folly ; when his wife 
speaks, I pity both ; but the music of Julia's tongue gives 
the throb of virtue to my heart, and lifts my soul to somewhat 
superhuman. 

I mention not the graces of her form ; yet they are such as 
would attract the admiration of those, by whom the beauties of 
her mind might not be understood. In one, as well as the other, 
there is a remarkable conjunction of tenderness with dignity : 
but her beauty is of that sort, on which we cannot probably 
decide independently of the soul, because the first is never 
uninformed by the latter. 

To the flippancy which we are apt to ascribe to females of her 
age, she seems utterly a stranger. Her disposition indeed 
appears to lean, in an uncommon degree, towards the serious. 
Yet she breaks forth at times into filial attempts at gayety, to 
amuse that disquiet which she observes in her father ; but even 
then it looks like a conquest over the natural pensiveness of 
her mind. This melancholy might be held a fault in Julia : but 
the fortune of her family has been such, that none but those who 
are totally exempted from thinking could have looked on it with, 
indifference. 

It is only, indeed, when she would confer happiness on others, 
that she seems perfectly to enjoy it. The rustics around us talk 
of her affability and good-humor with the liveliest gratitude ; 
and I have been witness to several scenes, where she dispensed 
mirth and gayety to some poor families in our neighborhood, 
with a countenance as cheerful as the most unthinking of them 
all. At those seasons, I have been tempted from the gravity 
natural to me, and borrowed from trifles a temporary happiness. 
Had you seen me yesterday dancing in the midst of a band of 
grape-gatherers, you would have blushed for your friend \ but I 
danced with Julia. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 367 

I am called from my description by the approach of her whom 
I would describe. Her father has sent his servant to inform me, 
that his wife and daughter have agreed to accompany him in a 
walk, as far as to a farm of mine, where I have set about trying 
some experiments in agriculture. Roubigne is skilful in those 
things ; as for me, I know I shall lose money by them ; but it 
will not be lost to the public ; and if T can even show what will 
not succeed, I shall do something for the good of my neighbors. 
Methinks, too, if Julia de Roubigne would promise to come and 
look at them — But I see their family from my window. 

Farewell. 



LETTER VI. 

Julia to Maria. 

You rally me on the subject of the Count de Montauban, 
with that vivacity I have so often envied you the possession of. 
You say, you are sure you should like him vastly. " What a 
blessing, in a remote province, where one is in danger of dying 
of ennui, to have this stiff, crusty, honorable Spaniard, to tease 
and make a fool of!" I have no thoughts of such amusement, 
and therefore I do not like him vastly; but, I confess, I begin 
to like him better than I did. He has lost much of that stern- 
ness, (dignity my father calls it) which used to chill me when I 
approached him. He can talk of common things, in a common 
way ; and but yesterday he danced with me on the green, amidst 
a troop of honest rustics, whom I wished to make happy at the 
small expense of sharing their happiness. All this, I allow, at 
first seemed foreign to the man ; but he did not, as I have seen 
some of your wise people do, take great credit for letting him- 
self down so low. He did it with a design of frankness, though 
some of his native loftiness remained in the execution. 

We are much in his debt on the score of domestic happiness. 
He has become so far one of the family, as to be welcome at all 
times, a privilege he makes very frequent use of; and we find 
ourselves so much at ease with him, that we never think even 
of talking more than we choose, to entertain him. He will sit 
for an hour at the table where I am working, with no other 
amusement than that of twisting shreds of my catgut into whim-f 
sical figures. 

I think that he also is not the worse for our society ; I sup» 



368 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

pose him the happier for it, from the change in his sentiments 
of others. He often disputes with my father, and will not allow 
the world to be altogether so bad as he used to do. My father, 
who can now be merry at times, jokes him on his apostacy. 
He appealed to me this morning for the truth of his argument. 
I told him, I was unable to judge, because I knew nothing of 
the world. "And yet," replied he gallantly, "it is from you one 
should learn to think better of it ! I never knew till I came 
hither, that it contained any thing so valuable as Mademoiselle 
de Roubigne." I think he looked foolish when he paid me this 
compliment. I curtsied, with composure enough. It is not 
from men like Montauban that one blushes at a compliment. 

Besides the general addition to our good-humor, his society 
is particularly useful to me. His discourse frequently turns on 
subjects, from the discussion of which, though I am somewhat 
afraid to engage in it, I always find myself the wiser. Amidst the 
toils of his military life, Montauban has contrived to find leisure 
for the pursuit of very extensive and useful knowledge. This, 
though little solicitous to display, he is always ready to com- 
municate ; and, as he finds me willing to be instructed, he seems 
to find a pleasure in instructing me. 

My mother takes every opportunity of encouraging this sort 
of conversation. You have often heard her sentiments on the 
mutual advantage of such intercourse between the sexes. You 
will remember her frequent mention of a male friend, who died 
soon after her marriage, from whom, she has told us, she de- 
rived most of the little accomplishments her mind can boast of. 
" Men," she used to say, " though they talk much of their 
friends, are seldom blest with a friend. The nature of that 
companionship, which they mistake for friendship, is really 
destructive of its existence ; because the delicacy of the last 
shrinks from the rude touch of the former ; and that, however 
pure in their own sentiments, the society which they see each 
other hold with third persons, is too gross, not to break those 
tender links, which are absolutely essential to friendship. 
Girls," said she, " easily form a connexion of a more refined 
sort ; but as it commonly begins with romance, it seldom out- 
lasts the years of childhood, except when it degenerates into 
cabal and intrigue ; but that the friendship of one of each sex. 
when so circumstanced as to be distant from love," which she 
affirmed might be the case, "has that combination of strength 
and delicacy which is equally formed to improve and delight." 

There may be much reason in her arguments ; but I cannot, 
notwithstanding my esteem for him, easily think of Montauban 
as my friend. He has not yet quite obliterated the fears I felt 
on our first acquaintance. He has, however, done much to con- 



JULIA DE ROUBTGNE. 369 

quer them ; and, if he goes on as he has begun, I know not 
what in time he may arrive at. Meantime, I am contented 
with Maria ; our friendship has at least endured beyond the 
period assigned by my mother. Shall it not always endure 1 I 
know the answer which your heart will make — mine throbs 
while I think of it. 



LETTER VII. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

You complain of my silence. In truth I have nothing to say 
but to repeat, what is very unnecessary, my assurances of friend- 
ship to Segarva. My life is of a sort that produces nothing — I 
mean in recital. To myself it is not vacant : I can be employ- 
ed in marking the growth of a shrub ; but I cannot describe its 
progress, nor even tell why its progress pleases me. 

If the word society is confined to our own species, I enjoy 
very little of it. I should except that of the family I gave you 
an account of some time ago. I fear I am too often with them ; 
I frequently resolve to be busy at home ; but I have scarce sat 
down to my table, when the picture of Roubigne's parlor pre- 
sents itself, and I think that my business may wait till to-morrow. 

I blush to tell you what a fool I am grown ; or is it that I 
am nearer the truth than formerly 1 I begin to entertain doubts 
of my own dignity, and to think that man is not altogether 
formed for the sublime place I used to allot him. One can be 
very happy with much less trouble, than very wise ; I have dis- 
covered this at Roubigne's. It is but conquering the name of 
trifles, which our pride would give things, and my hours at 
Roubigne's are as importantly rilled up as any employment 
could make them. 

After all, what is our boasted philosophy to ourselves or 
others? Its consequence is often borrowed, more from the lan- 
guage it speaks, than the object it pursues, and its attainments 
valued, more from their difficulty, than their usefulness. But 
life takes its complexion from inferior things ; and Providence 
has wisely placed its real blessings within the reach of moderate 
abilities. We look for a station beyond them ; it is fit that we 
too should have our reward ; and it is found in our vanity. It 
is only from this cause, that I sometimes blush, as if I were un- 
worthily employed, when I feel myself happy in doing nothing 
at Monsieur de Roubigne's fireside. 



370 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

Yet do not suppose that we are always employed in trifles i 
She has a mind no less capable of important research, of exalted 
sentiment. — 

I am hastily called away ; — it saves you the continuation of a 
very dull letter. I send this, such as it is, more as a title to 
receive one from you, than that it should stand for any thing of 
itself. Farewell. 



LETTER VIII. 

Julia to Maria. 

Pity me, Maria, pity me ! even that quiet which my letters 
of late described, which I was contented to call happiness, is 
denied me. There is a fatality which everywhere attends the 
family of the unfortunate Roubigne ; here, to the abodes of 
peace, perplexity pursues it ; and it is destined to find new dis- 
tresses, from those scanty sources to which it looked for comfort. 

The Count de Montauban — why did he see me ? why did he 
visit here ? why did I listen to his discourse 1 though, Heaven 
knows, I meant not to deceive him ! he has declared himself 
the lover of your Julia ! — I own his virtues, I esteem his char- 
acter, I know the gratitude too we owe him ; from all those cir- 
cumstances I am doubly distressed at my situation ; but it is 
impossible, it is impossible that I should love him ! How could 
he imagine that I should ? or how does he still continue to ima- 
gine that I may be won to love him ? I soften my refusal, be- 
cause I would distress no man ; Montauban, of all men, the 
least ; but surely it was determined enough, to cut off all hopes 
of my ever altering my resolution. 

Should not his pride teach him to cease such mortifying soli- 
citations ? How has it, in this instance alone, forsaken him 1 
Methinks too he has acted ungenerously, in letting my mother 
know of his addresses. When I hinted this, he fell at my feet, 
and entreated me to forgive a passion so earnest as his, for 
calling in every possible assistance. Cruel ! that, in this ten- 
derest concern, that sex which is naturally feeble, should have 
other weaknesses to combat besides its own. 

I know my mother's gentleness too well to have much to fear 
from her : but the idea of my father's displeasure is terrible. 
This morning, when I entreated my mother not to mention this 
matter to him, she informed me of her having already told him. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE\ 371 

It was an affair, she said, of so much importance to his family, 
that she durst not venture to conceal it. There was something 
in the coolness of her words that hurt me ; but I stifled the 
answer which I was about to make, and only observed, that of 
that family I was the nearest concerned. " You shall judge for 
yourself, my dear girl," said she, resuming the natural gentle- 
ness of her manner, " I will never pretend to control your affec- 
tions. Your opinions I always hold it my duty to guide : ex- 
perience, dearly bought perhaps, has given me some title to 
guide them. Believe me, there are dreams of romantic affection, 
which are apt to possess young minds, the reality of which is 
not to be found in nature. I do not blame you for doubting 
this at present ; but the time will come when you shall be con- 
vinced of its truth." 

Is it so, Maria ? Shall that period ever arrive, when my 
present feelings shall be forgotten 1 But, if it should, are they 
not now my conscience, and should I not be unjust to Montau- 
ban and myself, were I now to act against them 1 



I have seen my father. He came into my room in his usual 
way, and asked me, if I chose to walk with him. His words 
were the same they were wont to be ; but I could discover that 
his thoughts were different. He looked on me with a deter- 
mined countenance, as if he prepared himself for contradiction. 
I concealed my uneasiness, however, and attended him with that 
appearance of cheerfulness, which I make it a point of duty to 
wear in his presence. He seemed to have expected something 
different ; for I saw he was softened from that hostility (may I 
call it 1) of aspect, which he had assumed at first, and, during our 
walk, he expressed himself to me with unusual tenderness. Alas ! 
too much so, Maria ! Why am I obliged to offend him 1 When 
he called me the support and solace of his age ; when he blessed 
heaven for leaving him, in the worst of his misfortunes, his Julia 
to comfort him — why could I not then, amidst my filial tears, 
when my heart should have poured itself out in duty and grati- 
tude, why could I not then assure him of its obedience ? 

Write to me, for pity's sake, write to me speedily. Assist 

me, counsel me, guide me — but say not that I should listen to 
Montauban. 



372 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER IX. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

I sit down to write to Segarva, with the idea of his presence 
at the time, and the idea was wont to be a pleasant one ; it is 
now mixed with a sort of uneasiness, like that which a man feels, 
who has offended, and would ask to be forgiven. The con- 
sciousness of what I meant by this letter to reveal, hangs like 
guilt upon my mind ; therefore it is that I have so long delayed 
writing. If you shall think it weakness — Yet I know not how 
I can bear chiding on this point. 

But why should I doubt of your approving it ? Our conversa- 
tions on the sex might be just, but they touch not Julia de 
Roubigne. Could my friend but see, but know her, I should 
need no other advocate to excuse the change of my sentiments. 

Let me tell him, then, of my passion for that loveliest of 
women ; that it has prompted me to offer her a hand, which, he 
has sometimes heard me declare, should never give away my 
freedom. This sounded like something manly, but it was, in 
truth, a littleness of soul. He who pauses in the exercise of 
every better affection of the heart, till he calculates the chances 
of danger or of ridicule, is the veriest of cowards ; but the re- 
solution, though frequently made, is seldom or never adhered 
to ; the voice of nature, of wisdom, and of virtue, is against it. 

To acquire such a friend as Julia de Roubigne — but friend is 
a word insignificant of the connexion — to have one soul, one 
fate with her ! to participate her happiness, to share her griefs ! 
to be that single being to whom, the next to the Divinity, she 
pours out the feelings of her heart, to whom she speaks the 
gentlest of her wishes ; to whom she sighs the most delicate of 
her fears ; to grant those wishes, to soothe those fears ! to have 
such a woman (like our guardian angel, without his superiority) 
to whom we may unbosom our own ! — the creation of pleasures 
is little ; this is a creation of soul to enjoy them ! 

Call not mine the language of doating love ; I am confident 
how much reason is on my side, and will now hear Segarva with 
patience. 

He will tell me of that fascinating power which women pos- 
sess when they would win us, which fades at once from the 
character of wife. — But I know Julia de Roubigne well ; she 
has grown up under the eye of the best of parents, unschooled 
in the practices of her sex ; she is ignorant of those arts of de- 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 373 

lusion which are taught by the society of women of the world. 
I have had opportunities of seeing her at all seasons, and in every 
altitude of mind. — Her soul is too gentle for the touch of art ; 
an effort at deceit would wring it even to torture. 

He will remind me of the disparity of age, and tell me the 
danger of her affections wandering from one, whom, on com- 
parison with herself, she will learn to think an old man. — But 
Julia is of an order of beings superior to those whom external 
form, and the trifling language of gallantry, can attract. Had 
she the flippancy of mind which those shallow qualities are able 
to allure, I think, Segarva, she were beneath the election of 
Montauban. 

I remember our former conversations on the subject of mar- 
riage, when we were both of one side ; and that, then, you 
observed in me a certain wakeful jealousy of honor, which, 
you said, the smile of a wife on another man would rouse into 
disquiet. — Perhaps I have been sometimes too hasty that way, 
in the sense of affronts from men ; but the nicety of a soldier's 
character, which must ever be out of the reach of question, may 
excuse it. I think I never showed suspicion of my friends ; 
and why to this lovely one, the delicacy of whose virtue I would 
vouch against the world, should I be more unjust than to others ? 
— There is no fiend so malicious as to breathe detraction against 
my Julia. 

1 In short, I have canvassed all your objections, and I think I 
have answered them all. Forgive me for supposing you to 
make them ; and forgive me, when I tell you, that while I did 
so, methought I loved you less than I was wont to do. 

But I am anticipating blessings which may never arrive ; 
for the gentlest of her sex is yet cruel to Montauban ; but I 
trust it is only the maiden coyness of a mind naturally fearful. 
She owned her esteem, her friendship — these are poor to the 
returns I ask ; but they must be exchanged for sentiments more 
tender, they must yield to the ardor of mine. They must, they 
shall ; I feel my heart expand with a glad foreboding that tells 
it of happiness to come. While I enjoy it, I wish for something 
more ; let me hear, then, that my Segarva enjoys it too. 



32 



374 JULIA. DE roubigne\ 

LETTER X. 

Julia to Maria. 

You know not the heart of your Julia ; yet impute it not to a 
want of confidence in your friendship. Its perplexity is of a 
nature so delicate, that I am sometimes afraid even to think on 
it myself; and often when I meant to reveal it to you, my utter- 
ance failed in the attempt. 

The character you have heard of the Count de Montauban is 
just ; it is perhaps even less than he merits ; for his virtues are 
of that unbending kind that does not easily stoop to the opinion 
of the world, to which the world, therefore, is not profuse of its 
eulogium. I revere his virtues, I esteem his good qualities ; 
but I cannot love him. — This must be my answer to others. 
But Maria has a right to something more ; she may be told 
my weakness, for her friendship can pity and support it. 

Learn, then, that I have not a heart to bestow. I blush even 
while I write this confession. Yet to love merit like Savillon's 
cannot be criminal. Why, then, do I blush again, when I think 
of revealing it 1 

You have seen him at Belville. Alas ! you know not his 
worth ; it is not easy to know it. Gentle, modest, retired from 
notice, — it was the lot of your Julia to discover it. She prized 
it more that it was not common to all ; and while she looked on 
it as the child of her own observation, it was vanity to know, 
it was virtue to cherish. Alas ! she was unconscious of that 
period when it ceased to be virtue, and grew into passion ! 

But whither am I wandering 1 I meant only to relate ; but 
our feelings speak for themselves before we can tell why we feel. 

Savillon's father and mine were friends ; his father was un- 
fortunate, and mine was the friend of his misfortune ; hence 
arose a sort of dependance on the one side, which, on the other, 
I fear, was never entirely forgotten. I have sometimes observed 
this weakness in my father ; but the pride that leads to virtue 
may be pardoned. He thinks of a man as his inferior, only that 
he may do him a kindness more freely. Savillon's family, in- 
deed, was not so noble as his mind ; my father warmly acknowl- 
edged the excellence of the last ; but he had been taught, from 
earliest infancy, to consider a misfortune the want of the former. 

After the death of old Savillon, my father's friendship and 
protection was transferred to his son ; the time he could spare 
from study was commonly spent at Belville. He appeared to 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 375 

feel in his situation that dependance I mentioned ; in mean souls 
this produces servility ; in liberal minds it is the nurse of honor- 
able pride. There was a silent melancholy about Savillon which 
disdained the notice of superficial observers, and was never satis- 
fied with superficial acquirements. His endowments did not 
attract the eye of the world ; but they fixed the esteem and 
admiration of his friends. His friends indeed were few ; and 
he seemed not to wish them many. 

To know such a man ; to see his merit ; to regret that yoke 
which fortune had laid upon him — I am bewildered in sentiment 
again. In truth, my story is the story of sentiment. I would 
tell you how I began to love Savillon ; but the trifles by which 
I now mark the progress of this attachment are too little for 
description. 

We are frequently together at that time of life, when a boy 
and a girl are not alarmed at being together. Savillon's supe- 
rior attainments made him a sort of master for your Julia. He 
used to teach me ideas ; sometimes he flattered me by saying 
that, in his turn, he learned from me. Our feelings were often 
equally disgusted with many of the common notions of man- 
kind, and we early began to form a league against them. We 
began with an alliance of argument ; but the heart was always 
appealed to in the last resort. 

The time at last came when I beg-an to fear something im- 
proper in our friendship ; but the fears that should guard, betray 
us. They make pictures to our fancy, which the reason they 
call to their assistance cannot overcome. 

In my rambles through the woods at Belville, I have often 
turned into a different walk from that I first designed to take, 
because I suspected Savillon was there ! Alas ! Maria, an 
ideal Savillon attended me, more dangerous than the real. 

But it was only from his absence I acquired a certain knowl- 
edge of myself. I remember, on the eve of his departure, we 
were walking in the garden ; my father was with us. He had 
been commending some carnation seeds, which he had just 
received from an eminent florist at Versailles. Savillon was 
examining some of them which my father had put into his hand ; 
and, soon after, when we came to a small plot, which I used to 
call my garden, he sowed a few of them in a particular corner 
of it. I took little notice at the time ; but not long after he was 
gone, the flowers began to appear. You cannot easily imagine 
the effect this trifling circumstance had upon me. I used to 
visit the spot by stealth, for a certain conscious feeling prevented 
my going openly thither, and watched the growth of those car- 
nations with the care of a parent for a darling child ; and when 



376 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

they began to droop (I blush, Maria, to tell it) I have often 
watered them with my tears. 

Such is the account of my own feelings ; but who shall tell 
me those of Savillon ? I have seen him look such things ! — 
but, alas ! Maria, our wishes are traitors, and give us false 
intelligence. His soul is too noble to pour itself out in those 
trivial speeches which the other sex often address to ours. 
Savillon knows not the language of compliment ; yet methinks 
from Savillon it would please. May not a sense of his humble 
fortune prevent him from speaking what he feels 1 When we 
were first acquainted, Julia de Roubigne was a name of some 
consequence ; fallen as she now is, it is now her time to be 
haughty, and Savillon is too generous to think otherwise. In 
our most exalted estate, my friend, we are not so difficult to 
win, as we are sometimes imagined to be ; it unfortunately 
happens that the best men think us the most so. 

I know I am partial to my own cause ; yet I am sensible of 
all the impropriety with which my conduct is attended. My 
conduct, did I call it 1 It is not my conduct ; I err but in thought. 
Yet, I fear, I suffered these thoughts at first without alarm. 
They have grown up, unchecked, in my bosom, and now I 
would control them in vain. Should I know myself indifferent 
to Savillon, would not my pride set me free 1 I sigh, and dare 
not say that it would. 

But there is something tenderer and less tumultuous in that 
feeling with which I now remember him, than when his presence 
used to alarm me. Obliged to leave France, where fortune had 
denied him an inheritance, he is gone to Martinique, on the 
invitation of an uncle, who has been several years settled in 
that island. When I think of the track of the ocean that sepa- 
rates us, my head grows dizzy as I think ! — that this little heart 
should have its interests extended so far! that, on the other 
side of the Atlantic, there should exist a being, for whom it 
swells with imaginary hope, and trembles, alas ! much oftener 
trembles, with imaginary fear. 

In such a situation, wonder not at my coldness to Montauban. 
I know not how it is ; but methinks I esteem him less than I 
did, from the preposterous reason, that he loves me when I 
would not have him. I owe him gratitude in return, though I 
cannot give him love ; but I involuntarily refuse him the first, 
because he asks the latter, which I have not to bestow ! 

Would that he had never seen your Julia ! I expect not a 
life of happiness, but had looked for one of quiet. There is 
something in the idea even of peaceful sadness, which I could 
bear without repining ; but I am not made for struggling with 
perplexity. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 377 

LETTER XL 

Julia to Maria. 

From your letters, Maria, I always find comfort and satis- 
faction ; and never did one arrive more seasonably than the last. 
When the soul is torn by contrary emotions, it is then we wish 
for a friend to reconcile us to ourselves ; such a friend am I 
blessed with in you. Advice from my Maria is the language 
of wisdom without its severity ; she can feel what is due to 
nature, while she speaks what is required of prudence. 

I have ever thought as you do, " that it is not enough for a 
woman not to swerve from the duty of a wife ; that to love 
another more than a husband, is an adultery of the heart ; and 
not to love a husband with undivided affection, is a virtual 
breach of the vow that unites us." 

But I dare not own to my father the attachment from which 
these arguments are drawn. There is a sternness in his idea 
of honor from which I shrink with affright. Images of vengeance 
and destruction paint themselves to my mind, when I think of 
his discovering that weakness which I cannot hide from myself. 
Even before my mother, as his wife, I tremble, and dare not 
disclose it. 

How hard is the fate of your Julia ! Unhappy from feelings 
which she cherished as harmless, which still she cannot think 
criminal, yet denied even the comfort of revealing, except to 
her Maria, the cause of her distress ! Amidst the wreck of our 
family's fortunes, I shared the common calamity ; must I now 
be robbed of the little treasure I had saved, spoiled of my peace 
of mind, and forbid the native freedom of my affections. 



I am called to dinner. One of our neighbors is below, a 
distant relation of Montauban, with his wife and daughter. 
Another stranger, Lisette says, is also there, a captain of a 
ship, she thinks, whom she remembers having seen formerly 
at Belville. Must I go, then, and look unmeaning cheerful- 
ness, and talk indifferent things, while my heart is torn with 
secret agitation 1 To feel distress, is painful ; but to dissemble 
it, is torture. 



32* 



378 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

I have now time to think, and power to express my thoughts. 
It is midnight, and the world is hushed around me ! After the 
agitation of this day, I feel something silently sad at my heart, 
that can pour itself out to my friend ! 

Savillon ! cruel Savillon ! but I complain as if it were false- 
hood to have forgotten her whom perhaps he had never loved. 

She, too, must forget him — Maria ! he is the husband of 
another ! That sea captain, who dined with my father to-day, 
is just returned from Martinique. With a beating heart I heard 
him questioned of Savillon. With a beating heart I heard him 
tell of the riches he is said to have acquired by the death of that 
relation with whom he lived ; but judge of its sensations, when 
he added, that Savillon was only prevented, by that event, from 
marrying the daughter of a rich planter, who had been destined 
for his wife on the very day his uncle died, and whom he was 
still to marry as soon as decency would permit. " And before 
this time," said the stranger, " he must be her husband." 

Before this time ! — while I was cherishing romantic hopes ! 
or, at least, while, amidst my distress, I had preserved, inviolate, 
the idea of his faith and my own. But whither does this delu- 
sion carry me 1 Savillon has broken no faith ; to me he never 
pledged it. Hide me, my friend, from the consciousness of 
my folly, or let it speak till its expiation be made, till I have 
banished Savillon from my mind. 

Must I, then, banish him from my mind 1 Must I forget the 
scenes of our early days, the opinions we formed, the authors 
we read, the music we played together "? There was a time 
when I was wont to retire from the profanity of vulgar souls to 
indulge the remembrance. 



I heard somebody tap at my door. I was in that state of 
mind which every thing terrifies ; I fancy I looked terrified, for 
my mother, when she entered, begged me, in a low voice, not 
to be alarmed. 

" I come to see you, Julia," said she, " before I go to bed ; 
methought you looked ill at supper." — " Did I, mamma ?" said 
I ; "lam well enough ; indeed I am." She pressed my hand 
gently ; I attempted to smile ; it was with difficulty I forbore 
weeping. 

" Your mind, child," continued my mother, " is too tender, I 
fear it is, for this bad world. You must learn to conquer some 
of its feelings, if you would be just to yourself; but I can par- 
don you, for I know how bewitching they are ; but trust me, 
my love, they must not be indulged too far ; they poison the 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 379 

quiet of our lives. Alas ! we have too little at best ! I am 
aware how ungracious the doctrine is ; but it is not the less 
true. If you ever have a child like yourself, you will tell her 
this in your turn, and she will not believe you." 

I was now weeping outright ; it was the only answer I could 
make. My mother embraced me tenderly, and begged me to 
be calm, and endeavor to rest. I gave her my promise to go 
soon to bed ; I am about to perform it ; but to rest, Maria ! — 
farewell ! 



LETTER XII. 

Julia to Maria. 

While I write, my paper is blotted by my tears. They fall 
not now for myself, but for my father ; you know not how he 
has wrung my heart. 

He had another appointment this day with that procureur, 
who once visited our village before. Sure there is something 
terrible in that man's business. Alas ! I formerly complained 
of my father's ill humor, when he returned to us from a meeting 
with him ; I knew not, unjust that I was, what reason he then 
might have for his chagrin ; I am still ignorant of their transac- 
tions, but have too good ground for making frightful conjectures. 

On his return in the evening, he found my mother and me in 
separate apartments. She has complained of a slight disorder, 
from cold, I believe, these two or three days past, and had lain 
down on a couch in her own room, till my father should return. 
I was left alone, and sat down to read my favorite Racine. 

" Iphigenia !" said my father, taking up the book, " Iphi- 
genia !" He looked on me piteously as he repeated the word. 
I cannot make you understand how much that single name ex- 
pressed, nor how much that look. He pressed me to his bosom, 
and as he kissed me I felt a tear on his cheek. 

"Your mother is in her own chamber, my love." I offered 
to go and fetch her ; he held my hand fast, as if he would not 
have me leave him. We stood for some moments thus, till my 
mother, who had heard his voice, entered the room. 

We sat down by the fire with my father between us. He 
looked on us alternately, with an affected cheerfulness, and 
spoke of indifferent things in a tone of gayety rather unusual 



380 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

to him ; but it was easy to see how foreign those appearances 
were to the real movements of his soul. 

There was at last, a pause of silence, which gave them time 
to overcome him. We saw a tear, which he was unable to re- 
press, begin to steal from his eye. " My dearest life !" said 
my mother, laying hold of his hand and kissing it ; I pressed 
the other in mine. "Yes," said he, "I am still rich in blessings, 
while these are left me. You, my love, have ever shared my 
fortunes unrepining : I look up to you, as to a superior Being, 
who, for all his benefits, accepts of our gratitude as the only 
recompense we have to make. This — this last retreat, where I 
looked for peace at least, though it was joined to poverty, we 
may soon be forced to leave ! Wilt thou still pardon, still 
comfort the man whose evil destiny has drawn thee along with 
it to ruin 1 And thou too, my child, my Julia ! thou wilt not 
forsake thy father's gray hairs ! Misfortune pursues him to the 
last ; do thou but smile, my cherub, and he can bear it still. I 
threw my head on his knees, and bathed them with my tears. 
" Do not unman me," he cried ; " I would support my situation 
as becomes a man. Methinks for my own part, I could endure 
any thing — but my wife ! my child ! can they bear want and 
wretchedness !" " They can bear any thing with you," said 
my mother. — I started up I know not how ; I said something, 
I know not what ; but at that moment I felt my heart roused as 
with the sound of a trumpet. My mother stood on one side, 
looking gently upwards, her hands, which were clasped together, 
leaning on my father's shoulder. He had one hand on his side, 
the other pressed on his bosom, his figure seeming to rise above 
itself, and his eye bent steadily forward. Methought, as I look- 
ed on them, I was above the fears of humanity ! 

Le Blanc entered. " 'Tis enough," said my father, taking 
one or two strides through the room, his countenance still pre- 
serving an air of haughtiness. " Go to my chamber," said he to 
Le Blanc, " I have some business for you." When they left 
the room, I felt the weakness of my soul return. I looked on 
my mother ; she turned from me to hide her tears. I fell on 
her neck and gave a loose to mine : " Do not weep, Julia !" 
was all she could utter, and she wept while she uttered it. 

When Le Blanc returned, he was pale as ashes, and his 
hands shook so that he could scarcely carry in supper. My 
father came in a few minutes after him ; he took his place at 
table in his usual way, and strove to look as he was wont to 
do. During the time of supper, I observed Le Blanc fix his 
eye upon him ; and, when he answered some little questions 
put to him by my father, his voice trembled in his throat. 

After being left by ourselves, we were for sometime silent. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 381 

My mother at last spoke through her tears : " Do not, my 
dearest Roubigne," said she, " add to our misfortunes by an 
unkind concealment of them. Has any new calamity befallen 
us ? — When we retired hither, did we not know the worst V* — 
" I am afraid not," answered he calmly, " but my fears may not 
be altogether just. Do not be alarmed, my love, things may 
turn out better than they appear. I was affected too much be- 
fore supper, and I could not conceal it. There are weak mo- 
ments when we are not masters of ourselves. When I looked 
on my Julia and you, when I thought on those treasures, I was 
a very coward ; but I have resumed my fortitude, and I think I 
can await the decision calmly. You shall know the whole, my 
love ; but let me prevail on you to be comforted in the mean- 
time ; let not our distresses reach us before their time." He 
rung for Le Blanc, and gave him directions about some ordi- 
nary matters for next day. 

As I went up stairs to my room, I saw that poor fellow stand- 
ing at the window in the staircase. " What do you here," said 
I, "Le Blanc!" — "Ah! Miss Julia," said he, "I know not 
well what I do." He followed me into my room, without my 
bidding him. " My master has spoken so to me ! When he 
called me before supper, as you saw, I went with him into his 
closet ; he wrote something down, as if he were summing up 
money. — " Here are so much wages due to you, Le Blanc," 
said he, putting the paper into my hand, " you shall receive the 
money now ; for I know not how long these louis may be mine 
to give you." — I could not read the figures, I am sure I could 
not ; I was struck blind, as it were, when he spoke so. He 
held out the gold to me ; I drew back : for I would not have 
touched it for the world : but he insisted on my taking it, till I 
fell on my knees, and entreated him not to kill me by offering 
such a thing. At length he threw it down on his table, and I 
saw him wipe his eyes with his handkerchief. — " My dear mas- 
ter !" said I, and I believe I took hold of his hand, for seeing 
him so made me forget myself. He waved his hand for me to 
leave the room ; and as I went down into the kitchen, if I had 
not burst into tears, I think I should have fainted away." 

What will our destiny do with us ? But I have learned of 
late to look on misery with less emotion. My soul has sunk 
into a stupid indifference, and sometimes, when she is roused 
at all, I conceive a sort of pride in meeting distress with forti- 
tude, since I cannot hope for the attainment of happiness. But 
my father, Maria ! — thus to bear at once the weakness of age, 
the gripe of poverty, the buffets of a world with which his spirit 
is already at war ! — there my heart bleeds again ! The com- 
plaints I have made of those little harshnesses I have sometimes 



882 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

felt from him, rise up to my memory in the form of remorse. 

Had he been more perfectly indulgent, methinks I should have 
pitied him less. 



I was alarmed by hearing my mother's bell. She had been 
seized with a sudden fit of sickness, and had almost fainted. 
She is now a good deal better, and endeavors to make light of 
it ; but at this time I am weaker than usual, and every appear- 
ance of danger frightens me. She chid me for not having been 
a-bed. I leave this open till the morning, when I can inform 
you how she does. 



My mother has got up, though against the advice of my father 
and me. It may be fancy, but I think I see her eye languid and 
weighed down. I would stifle even the thoughts of danger, but 
cannot. Farewell. 



LETTER XIII. 

Lisette to Maria. 

Madame, — I am commanded by my dear young lady to write 
to you, because she is not in a condition to write herself. I am 
sure I am little able either. I have a poor head for inditing at 
any time : and, at present, it is so full of the melancholy scenes 
I have seen, that it goes round, as it were, at the thoughts of 
telling them. When I think what a lady I have lost ! To be 
sure, if ever there was a saint on earth, Madame de Roubigne 
was she — but Heaven's will be done ! 

I believe Miss Julia wrote you a letter the day she was taken 
ill. She did not say much, for it was not her way to be trouble- 
some with her complaints ; but we all saw by her looks how 
distressed she was. That night my master lay in a separate 
apartment, and I sat up by her bedside ; I heard her tossing 
and restless all night long ; and now and then, when she got a 
few moment's sleep, she would moan through it sadly, and 
presently wake again with a start, as if something had fright- 
ened her. In the morning a physician was sent for, who caused 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE, 383 

her to be blooded, and we thought her the better for it ; but that 
was only for a shost time, and the next night she was worse 
than before, and complained of violent pains all over her body, 
and particularly her breast, and did not once shut her eyes to 
sleep. They took a greater quantity of blood from her now 
than at first ; and in the evening she had a blister put on, and 
the doctor sat by her part of the night. All this time Miss Julia 
was scarce ever out of her mother's chamber, except sometimes 
for a quarter of an hour, when the doctor begged of her to go, 
and he and I were both attending my lady. My master, indeed, 
that last night took her away, and prevailed on her to put off 
her clothes and go to bed ; and I heard him say to her in a 
whisper, when they had got upon the stairs, " My Julia, have 
pity on yourself for my sake ; let me not lose both ;" — and he 
wept, I saw, as he spoke ; and she burst into tears. 

The fourth day my lady continued much in the same way, but 
during the night she wandered a good deal, and spoke much of 
her husband and daughter, and frequently mentioned the Count 
de Montauban. The doctor ordered some things, I forget their 
proper name, to be laid to the soles of her feet, which seemed to 
relieve her head much; for she was more distinct towards morn- 
ing, and knew me when I gave her drink, and called me by my 
name, which she had not done before, but had taken me for my 
young lady ; but her voice was fainter than ever, and her physi- 
cian looked more alarmed, when he visited her, than I had seen 
him do all the rest of her illness. My master was then in the 
room, and presently they went out together ; my lady called me 
to her, and asked who had gone out ; when I told her, she said, 
*' I guess the reason ; but, Heaven be praised, I can think of it 
without terror." 

Her daughter entered the room just then ; she went up to her 
mother, and asked how she found herself. " More at ease, my 
child," said she, "but I will not deceive you into hope; I believe 
this momentary relief is a fatal symptom ; my own feelings tell 
me so, and the doctor's looks confirm them." " Do not speak 
so, my dearest mother! for Heaven's sake do not!" was all she 
could answer. 

The doctor returned along with my master. He felt my lady's 
pulse ; Miss Julia looked up wildly in his face ; my master turn- 
ed aside his head ; but my lady, sweet angel, was calm and 
gentle as a lamb. " Do not flatter me ;" said she, when the 
doctor let go her arm ; " I know you think I cannot recover." 
"I am not without hopes, Madame," he replied, "though I con- 
fess my fears are stronger than my hopes." My lady looked 
upwards for a moment, as I have often seen her do in health. 
Her daughter flung herself on the bed ; I thought she had fallen 



384 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

into a swoon, and wanted to lift her up in my arms, though I was 
all of a tremble and could hardly support myself. She started 
up, and would have spoken to her mother ; but she wept, and 
sobbed, and could not. My lady begged her to be composed ; 
my master could not speak, but he laid hold of her hand, and, 
with a sort of gentle force, led her out of the room. 

My lady complained of a dryness on her mouth and lips ; the 
doctor gave her a glass of water, into which he poured a little 
somewhat out of a phial ; she thanked him when she had drank 
it, and seemed to speak easier ; he said he should leave her for 
a little. Monsieur de Roubigne came in. " Attend my daugh- 
ter," said she to me ; and I thought she wanted to be alone with 
my master. 

I found Miss Julia in the parlor, leaning on the table, her 
cheek resting on her hand ; when I spoke, she fell a crying 
again. Soon after her father came in, and told her that her 
mother wished to see her ; she returned along with my master, 
and they were some time together. 

When I was called, I found my lady very low, by reason, as 
I suppose, she had worn herself out in speaking to them. The 
doctor said so too when he returned ; and in the afternoon, 
when I attended him down stairs, he said to me, " that excel- 
lent lady is going fast." He promised to see her again in two 
•aours; but before that time we found she had grown much 
worse, and had lost her speech altogether ; and when he came, 
ne said nothing was to be done, but to make her as easy as 
possible, and offered to stay with her himself ; which he did 
till about three next morning, when the dear good lady expired. 

Her daughter fainted away, and it was a long time before the 
physician could recover her. It is wonderful how my master 
bears up, in order to comfort her ; but one may see how heavy 
his grief is on him for all that. This morning Miss Julia desired 
me to attend her to the chamber where her mother's corpse is 
laid. I was surprised to hear her speak so calmly as she did ; 
and, though I made so free as to dissuade her much at first, yet 
she persuaded me she could bear it well enough ; and I went 
with her accordingly. But when we came near the door, she 
stopped, and pulled me back into her room, and leaned on my 
arm, and fell into a violent fit of weeping ; yet, when I begged 
her to give over thoughts of going, she said she was easy again, 
and would go. And thus two or three times she went and re- 
turned, till, at last, she opened the door, in desperation, as one 
may say, and I went in close behind her. The first sight we 
saw was Monsieur de Roubigne at the bedside, bending over 
the corpse, and holding one of its hands in his. " Support me, 
Lisette," cried she, and leaned back on me again. My master 



JULIA BE ROUBIGNE. 385 

turned about as she spoke ; his daughter took courage, as it 
were, then, and walked up to the body, and took the hand that 
her father had just let drop, and kissed it. " My child !" said 
he. " My father !" answered my dear young lady, and they 
clasped one another in their arms. I could not help bursting 
into tears when I saw them ; yet it was not altogether for grief 
neither. I know not how it was, but I weep when I think of it 
yet. May Heaven bless them both, and preserve them to sup- 
port one another ! 



My lady's bell rung, and she asked me if I had written to you. 
When I told her I had, she inquired if I had sent off the letter, 
and I was fain to say yes, lest she should ask me to read it, and 
I knew how bad it must be for her to hear all I have told your 
ladyship repeated. I am sure it is a sad scrawl, and little worth 
your reading, were it not that it concerns so dear a friend of 
yours as my lady is ; and I have told things just as they hap- 
pened, and as they came up to my mind, which is indeed but in 
a confused way still. But I ever am, Madame, with respect, 
Your faithful and obedient servant, 

Lisette. 



LETTER XIV. 

Julia to Maria. 

At last, my Maria, I am able to write. In the sad society 
of my afflicted father, I have found no restraint on my sorrows. 
We have indulged them to the full ; their first turbulence is 
subsided, and the still quiet grief that now presses on my 
bosom, is such as my friend may participate. 

Your loss is common to thousands. Such is the hackneyed 
consolation of ordinary minds, availing even when it is true. 
But mine is not common ; it is not merely to lose a mother, the 
best, the most indulgent of mothers ! Think, Maria, think of 
your Julia's situation ! how helpless, how forlorn she is ! A 
father pursued by misfortune to the wane of life ; but, alas ! he 
looks to her for support ! He has outlived the last of his friends, 
and those who should have been linked to him by the ties of 
blood, the same fatal disputes, which ruined his fortune, have 

33 



386 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

shaken from his side. Beyond him, — and he is old, and afflic- 
tion blasts his age ! — beyond him, Maria, and but for thee, — the 
world were desolate around me. 

My mother! — you have seen, you have known her. Her 
gentle, but assured spirit, was the tutelary power to which we 
ever looked up for comfort and protection ; to the last moment 
it enlightened herself, and guided us. The night before she 
died, she called me to her bedside : " I feel, my child," said 
she, " as the greatest bitterness of parting, the thought of leav- 
ing you to affliction and distress. I have but one consolation to 
receive or to bestow ; a reliance on that merciful Being, who, 
in this hour, as in all the past, has not forsaken me ! Next to 
that Being, you will shortly be the only remaining support of the 
unfortunate Roubigne. I had of late looked on one measure as 
the means of procuring his age an additional stay ; but I will 
not prescribe your conduct, or warp your heart. I know the 
purity of your sentiments, the warmth of your filial affection ; to 

those and the guidance of Heaven ." She had spoken thus 

far with difficulty ; her voice now failed in the attempt. My 
father came into the room ; he sat down by me ; she stretched 
out her hand, and joining ours, which were both laid on the bed 
together, she clasped them with a feeble pressure, leaned back- 
ward, seemingly worn out with the exertion, and looked up to 
heaven, as if directing us thither for that assistance which her 
words had bequeathed us — her last words ! for after that she 
could scarcely speak to be heard, and only uttered some broken 
syllables, till she lost the power of utterance altogether. 

These words cannot be forgotten ! they press upon my mind 
with the sacredness of a parent's dying instructions ! But that 
measure they suggested — is it not against the dictates of a still 
superior power 1 I feel the thoughts of it as of a crime. Should 
it be so, Maria ? or do I mistake the whispers of inclination for 
the suggestions of conscience 1 Yet I think I have searched 
my bosom impartially, and its answer is uniform. Were it 
otherwise, should it ever be otherwise, what would not your 
Julia do, to smooth the latter days of a father, on whose gray 
hairs distresses are multiplied ! 

Methinks, since this last blow, he is greatly changed. The 
haughtiness of spirit, which seemed to brave, but, in reality, was 
irritated by misfortune, has left him. He looks calmly upon 
things ; they affect him more, but hurt him less ; his tears fall 
oftener, but they are less terrible than the sullen gloom which 
used to darken his aspect. I can now mingle mine with his, free 
to affliction, without uneasiness or fear ; and those offices of 
kindness, which once my piety exacted, are now the offering of 
my heart. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 387 

Montauban has behaved, on this occasion, as became his 
character. How perfect were it, but for that weakness which 
regards your Julia ! He came to see my father the day after 
that on which my mother died. M I will not endeavor," said he, 
" to stop the current of your grief; that comfort which the world 
offers at times like these, flows not from feeling, and cannot be 
addressed to it. Your sorrow is just ; I come to give you lei- 
sure to indulge it ; employ me in those irksome offices which 
distress us more than the tears they oblige us to dry ; think 
nothing too mean to impose on me, that can any how relieve 
my friend." 

And this friend his daughter is forced to deprive him of. Such 
at least is the common pride of the sex, that will not brook any 
other connexion where one is rejected. I am assailed by mo- 
tives on every hand ; but my own feelings are still unconquered. 
Support them, my ever faithful Maria, if they are just ; if not — 
but they cannot be unjust. 

The only friend of my own sex, whom I possessed besides 
thee, is now no more ! We needed no additional tie ; yet, me- 
thinks, in the grief of my heart, I lean upon yours with increas- 
ing affection. Thou too— I will not say pity — thou shalt love 
me more. 



LETTER XV. 

Julia to Maria. 

I have, this moment, received your answer to my last. Ah ! 
my friend, it answers not as I wished. Is this frowardness in 
me, to hear with pleasure only the arguments on one side, when 
my conduct should be guided by those on both. 

" You say, it is from the absence of Savillon, that the im- 
pression he had made on my heart has gained its present 
strength ; that the contemplation of distant objects is always 
stronger than the sense of present ones ; and that, were I to 
see him now, were I daily to behold him the husband of another, 
I should soon grow tranquil at the sight. That it is injustice to 
myself, and a want of that proper pride which should be the con- 
stant attendant of our sex, to suffer this unhappy attachment to 
overcome my mind ; and that, after looking calmly on the world, 
you cannot allow so much force to those impressions, as our 
youth was apt to suppose in them. That they are commonly 



388 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

vanquished by an effort to vanquish them ; and that the sinking 
under their pressure is one of those diseases of the mind which, 
like certain diseases of the body, the exercise of its better 
faculties will very soon remove." 

There is reason in all this ; but while you argue from reason, 
I must decide from my feelings. In every one's own case, there 
is a rule of judging, which is not the less powerful that one can- 
not express it. I insist not on the memory of Savillon ; I can 
forget him, I think I can — time will be kind that way — it is fit 
I should forget him — he is happy, as the husband of another. — 
But should I wed any man, be his worth what it may, if I feel 
not that lively preference for him, which waits not for reasoning 
to persuade its consent? The suggestions I have heard of 
Montauban's unwearied love, his uncommon virtues, winning 
my affections in a state of wedlock, I have always held a very 
dangerous experiment ; there is equivocation in those vows 
which unite us to a husband, our affection for whom we leave 
to contingency. " But I already esteem and admire him." It 
is most true ! — why is he not contented with my esteem and ad- 
miration ? If those feelings are to be ripened into love, let him 
wait that period when my hand may be his without a blush. This 
I have already told him ; he almost owned the injustice of his 
request, but pleaded the ardor of passion in excuse. Is this 
fair dealing, Maria'? that his feelings are to be an apology for 
his suit, while mine are not allowed to be a reason for refusal ? 



I am called away by my father ; I heard the count's voice 
below some time before. There was a solemnity in my father's 
manner of asking me down, which indicates something import- 
ant in his visit. You shall hear what that is before this letter 
is closed. Again ! he is come to fetch me. 



Maria ! let me recover my surprise ! Yet why should I be 
surprised at the generosity of Montauban? I know the native 
nobleness of his soul. Was it in such a girl as me to enfeeble 
it so long? 

My father led me into the parlor. Montauban was standing 
in a pensive posture ; he made me a silent bow. I was placed 
in a chair, standing near another, which the count had occupied 
before ; he sat down. My father walked to the window ; his 
back was to us. Montauban put himself once or twice into the 
attitude of speaking ; but we were still silent. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 389 

My father turned and approached us. " The count has 
something to communicate, Julia. Would you choose, Sir, 
that it should be addressed to her alone V 1 " No," answered 
he, " it is an expiation to both, and both should hear it made. 
I fear, I have unwittingly been the cause of disquiet to a family, 
whose society, for some time past, has been one of the chief 
sweeteners of my life. They know my gratitude for the blessing 
of that intimacy they were kind enough to allow me. When I 
wished for a more tender connexion, they could not blame my 
wish ; but when I pressed it so far as to wound their peace, I 
was unworthy of the esteem they had formerly given, an esteem 
I cannot now bear to lose. When I cease my suit, Miss Julia, 
let it speak, not a diminution, but an increase of my affection. 
If that regard, which you often had the generosity to confess for 
me, was impaired by my addresses, let me recover it by this 
sacrifice of my hopes ; and, while I devote to your quiet the 
solicitations of my love, let it confirm to me every privilege of 
the most sacred friendship." 

Such were the words of Montauban. I know not what an- 
swer I made ; I remember a movement of admiration, and no 
more. At that instant he seemed nobler than ever ; and when, 
in spite of his firmness a tear broke forth, my pity almost carried 
me beyond esteem. How happy might this man make another! 
Julia de Roubigne is fated to be miserable ! 

********** 



LETTER XVI. 

The Count de Montauban to Monsieur Duyergne, at Paris. 



I have sent only three of the bills I proposed in my last to 
remit ; that for five thousand, and the other for twelve thousand 
livres, at short dates, I have retained, as, I believe, I shall have 
use for them here. You may discount some of the others, if 
you want money for immediate use, which, however, I imagine, 
will not be the case. 

I beg you may, immediately upon the receipt of this, send the 
inclosed letter as directed. The name in the superscription I 
have made Vervette, though my steward, from whom I take it, 
is not sure if it be exactly that : but as he tells me the man is a 
procureur of some practice, and is certain as to the place of his 

33* 



390 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

residence, I imagine you will have no difficulty in finding him. 
I wish my letter to reach him in Paris ; but if you hear that he 
has gone into the country, send me notice by the messenger, 
who is to fetch down my uncle's papers, by whom I shall receive 
your answer sooner than by post. 

********** 



LETTER XVII. 

Lisette to Maria. 

Madame, — I make bold to write this, in great haste, because 
I am sensible of your friendship for my lady, and that you will 
thank me for giving you an opportunity of trying to serve her 
father and her in their present distress. She, poor lady, is in 
such a situation as not to be able to write ; and besides, she is 
so noble minded, that I dare be sworn she would not tell you 
the worst, lest it should look like asking your assistance. 

How shall I tell you, Madame 1 My poor master is in danger 
of being forced away from us, and thrown into prison. A debt, 
it seems, owing to some people in Paris, on account of ex- 
penses about that unfortunate lawsuit, has been put into the 
hands of a procureur, who will not hear of any delay in the pay- 
ment of it ; and he was here this morning, and told my master, 
as Le Blanc overheard, that, if he could not procure the money 
in three hour's time, he must attend him to a jail. My master 
wished to conceal this from his daughter, and desired the pro- 
cureur to do his duty, without any noise or disturbance ; but Le 
Blanc had scarcely gone up stairs, when she called him, and 
inquired about that man's business ; and he could not hide it, 
his heart was so full, and so he told her all that had passed 
below. Then she flew down to her father's room, and hung 
about him in such a manner, weeping and sobbing, that it 
would have melted the heart of a savage, and so, to be sure, 
I said to the procureur; but he did not mind me a bit, nor 
my lady neither, though she looked so, as I never beheld in all 
my life, and I was terrified to see her so, and said all I could to 
comfort her, but to no purpose. At last, a servant of the pro- 
cureur brought him a letter, and presently he went out of the 
house, but left two of his attendants to watch that my master 
should not escape ; and they are now here, and they say that 
he cannot grant any respite ; but that, as sure as can be, whea 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 391 

he returns, he will take away Monsieur de Roubigne to prison. 
I send this by a boy, a nephew of Le Blanc's, who serves a 
gentleman in this province, who is just now going post to Paris, 
and the boy called on his way, by good fortune, to see his uncle. 
I am, in haste, your very faithful and obedient servant, 

Lisette. 

P. S. My lady is much more composed now, and so is my 
master. The procureur has not returned yet, and I have a sort 
of hope ; yet God knows whence it should be, except from your 
ladyship. 



LETTER XVIII. 

Lisette to Maria. 

To be sure, Madame, you must have been much affected with 
the distress in our family, of which I informed you in my last, 
considering what a friendship there is between my dear lady and 
you. And now I am much vexed, that I should have given 
you so much uneasiness in vain, and send this to let you know 
of the happy deliverance my master has met with, from that most 
generous of men, the Count de Montauban ; I say, the most 
generous of men, as to be sure he is, to advance so large a sum 
without any near prospect of being repaid, and without ever 
being asked to do such a favor ; for I verily believe my master 
would die before he would ask such a favor of any one, so high- 
minded he is, notwithstanding all his misfortunes. He is just 
now gone to see the count, for that noble -hearted gentleman 
would not come to our house, lest, as Monsieur de Roubigne 
said, he should seem to triumph in the effects of his own gene-, 
rosity. Indeed, the thing was done as if it had been by witch- 
craft, without one of this family suspecting such a matter ; and 
the procureur never came back at all, only he sent a paper, 
discharging the debt, to one of the men he had left behind, who, 
upon that, behaved very civilly, and went away with much better 
manners, forsooth, than they came ; but Le Blanc followed 
them to the village, where they met the procureur, and thus it 
was that we discovered the debt to have been paid by the count, 
who, it seems, had sent that letter, but without a name, which 
the procureur received, when he left us at the time I wrote your 
ladyship last. 



392 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

Monsieur de Roubigne is returned from his visit to the Count 
de Montauban, and has been a long time closeted with my lady, 
and, to be sure, something particular must have passed, but 
what it is I cannot guess ; only I am certain it is something 
more than common, because I was in the way when they parted, 
and my lady passed me, and I saw by her looks that there had 
been something. When she went into her chamber, I follow- 
ed her, and there she sat down, leaning her arm on her dress- 
ing table, and gave such a sigh, as I thought her heart would 
have burst with it. Then I thought I might speak, and asked if 
she was not well. " Very well, Lisette," said she ; but she said 
it as if she was not well for all that, breathing strongly as she 
spoke the words, as one does when one has run one's self out 
of breath. " Leave me child," said she, "I will call you again 
by and bye." And so I left her as she bid me, and as I went 
out of the room, shutting the door softly behind me, I heard her 
start up from her chair, and say to herself, " The lot is cast !" 
I think that was it. 

My master has been all this while in his study, writing, and 
just now he called Le Blanc, and gave him a letter for the 
Count de Montauban ; and Le Blanc told me, as he passed, 
that Monsieur de Roubigne looked gayer, and more in spirits, 
than usual, when he gave it him. My lady is still in her cham- 
ber alone, and has never called me, as she promised. Poor 
dear soul ! I am sure I would do any thing to serve her, that I 
would ; and well I may, for she is the kindest, sweetest lady to 
me, and so indeed she is to every body. 

And now, Madame, I am sure I should ask a thousand pardons 
for using the freedom to write to you in such a manner, just by- 
starts, as things happen. But I am sensible your ladyship will 
not impute my doing so to any want of respect, but only to my 
desire of giving your ladyship an account of the situation of my 
lady, and of this family, which you were so condescending as to 
say, after my first letter, you were much obliged to me for giving 
you, and begged that it might be in my own style, which, to be 
sure, is none of the best ; but which your ladyship will be so 
good as pardon, especially as I am, when I write to you about 
these things, in a flutter, as one may say, as well as having little 
time to order my expressions for the best — I am, honored Ma- 
dame, with due respect, your faithful and obedient servant, 

Lisette* 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE, 393 

LETTER XIX. 

Julia to Maria. 

In the intricacies of my fate, or of my conduct, I have long 
been accustomed to consider you my support and my judge. 
For some days past these have come thick upon me ; but I 
could not find composure enough to state them coolly even to 
myself. At this hour of midnight, I have summoned up a still 
recollection of the past ; and with you, as my other conscience, 
I will unfold and examine it. 

The ready zeal of my faithful Lisette has, I understand, saved 
me a recital of the distress in which my father found himself 
involved, from the consequences of that lawsuit we have so often 
lamented. I could only share it with him ; but a more effectual 
friend stepped forth in the Count de Montauban. His gene- 
rosity relieved my father, and gave him back to freedom and 
your Julia. 

The manner of his doing this, was such as the delicacy of a 
mind, jealous of its own honor, would prompt in the cause of 
another's. I thought I saw a circumstance, previous to the 
count's performing it, which added to that delicacy. My father 
did not then perceive this ; it was not till he waited on Montau- 
ban, that the force of it struck his mind. 

When he returned home, I saw some remains of that pride, 
which formerly rankled under the receipt of favors it was unable 
to return. " My Julia," said he, " your father is unhappy, every 
way unhappy ; but it is fit I should be humble — Pierre de Rou- 
bigne must learn humility !" He uttered these words in a tone 
that frightened me ; I could not speak. He saw me confused, 
I believe, and putting on a milder aspect, took my hand and 
kissed it. — " Heaven knows, that for myself, I rate not life or 
liberty at much ; — but, when I thought what my child must suffer 
— I alone am left to protect her — and I am old and weak, and 
must ask for that assistance which I am unable to repay." — . 
" The generous, Sir," said I, " know from their own hearts 
what yours can feel : all beyond is accident alone." — " The 
generous, indeed, my child ! but you know not all the gene- 
rosity of Montauban. When he tore himself from those hopes 
which his love had taught him ; when he renounced his preten- 
sions to that hand, which I know can alone confer happiness on 
his life ; it was but for a more delicate opportunity of reliev- 
ing thy father. — ' I could not,' said he, « while I sought your 



394 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

daughter's love, bear the appearance of purchasing it by a 
favor ; now I have renounced it for ever, I am free to the offices 
of friendship.' Had you seen him, Julia., when he pronounced 
this for ever I great as his soul is, he wept ! by Heaven, he 
wept, at pronouncing it ! These tears, Julia, these tears of my 
friend ! Would I had met my dungeon in silence ! — they had 
not torn my heart thus !" 

Maria, mine was swelled to a sort of enthusiastic madness — 
I fell at his feet. — 

" No, my father, they shall not. Amidst the fall of her 
family, your daughter shall not stand aloof in safety. She 
should have shared the prison of her father in the pride of ad- 
versity ; behold her now the partner of his humiliation ! Tell 
the Count de Montauban, that Julia de Roubigne offers that 
hand to his generosity, which she refused to his solicitation ; — 
tell him, also, she is above deceit : she will not conceal the 
small value of the gift. 'Tis but the offering of a wretch, who 
would somehow requite the sufferings of her father, and the 
services of his friend. If he shall now reject it, that ugly 
debt, which his unhappiness lays us under, will be repaid in 
the debasement she endures ; if he accepts of it as it is> 
tell him, its mistress is not ignorant of the duty that should 
attend it." 

My father seemed to recover at my words : yet surprise was 
mixed with the satisfaction his countenance expressed. " Are 
these your sentiments, my love V 1 pressing my hand closer in 
his. The heroism of duty was wasted — I answered him with 
my tears. " Speak," said he, " my Julia, coolly ; and let not 
the distresses of your father warp your resolution. He can 

endure any thing ; even his gratitude shall be silenced." 

My fortitude revived again. " There is some weakness, Sir, 

attends even our best resolves : mine are not without it ; but 
they are fixed, and I have spoken them." He asked if he 
might acquaint Monsieur de Montauban. " Immediately, Sir," 
I answered, "if you please ; the sooner he knows my resolu- 
tion, the more will he see it flowing from my heart." My 
father went into his study, and wrote a letter which he read ta 
me. It was not all that I could have wished, yet I could not 
mend it by correction. Who shall give words to the soul at 
such a time ? My very thoughts are not accurate expressions 
of what I feel : there is something busy about my heart, which 
I cannot reduce into thinking. Oh ! Maria ! 

Montauban came immediately on receipt of this letter ; we 
did not expect him that night ; we were at supper. In what a 
situation was your Julia while it lasted ? In this terrible in- 
terval, I was obliged to meet his eye sometimes, in addressing 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 395 

ordinary civilities to him. To see him, to speak to him thus, 
while the fate of my life Mas within the power of a few little 
words, was such torture, as it required the utmost of my reso- 
lution to bear. My lather saw it, and put as speedy an end to 
our meal as possible. We were left alone- 

My father spoke first, not without hesitation. Montauban 
was still more confused, but it was the confusion of a happy 
man. He spoke some half sentences about the delicacy of my 
sentiments and his own ; but was entangled there, and, I think, 
not able to extricate himself. At last, turning fuller towards 
me, who sat the silent victim of the scene, (why should I score 
through that word when writing to you 1 yet it is a bad one, and 
I pray you to forgive it), he said he knew his own unworthiness 
of that hand, which my generosity now allowed him to hope for: 
but that every endeavor of his future life — the rest was com- 
monplace ; for his sex have but one sort of expression for the 
exulting modesty of success. My father put my hand in his — 
I was obliged to raise my eyes from the ground, and look on 
him ; his were bent earnestly on me ; there was too, too much 
joy in them, Maria ; mine could not bear them long. " That 
hand," said my father, " is the last treasure of Roubigne. 
Fallen as his fortunes are, not the wealth of worlds had pur- 
chased it : to your friendship, to your virtue, he is blessed in 
bequeathing it." " I know its value," said the count, " and 
receive it as the dearest gift of Heaven and you." He kissed 
my hand with rapture. 

It is done, and I am Montauban's for ever ! 



LETTER XX. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

Give me joy, Segarva, give me joy — the lovely Julia is mine* 
Let not the torpid considerations of prudence, which your last 
letter contained, rise up to check the happiness of your friend, 
or that which his good fortune will bestow on you. Trust me, 
thy fears are groundless — didst thou but know her as I do ! — 
Perhaps I am more tender that way than usual ; but there were 
some of your fears I felt a blush in reading. Talk not of the 
looseness of marriage vows in France, nor compare her with 
those women of it, whose heads are giddy with the follies of 
fashion, and whose hearts are debauched by the manners of its 



396 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

votaries. Her virtue was ever above the breath of suspicion, 
and I dare pledge my life, it will ever continue so. But that is 
not enough ; I can feel as you do, that it is not enough. I 
know the nobleness of her soul, the delicacy of her sentiments. 
She would not give me her hand except from motives of regard 
and affection, were I master of millions. I rejoice that her 
situation is such, as infers no suspicion of interestedness in 
me ; were she not Julia de Roubigne, I would not have wedded 
her with the world for her dower. 

You talk of her former reluctance ; but I am not young enough 
to imagine that it is impossible for a marriage to be happy with- 
out that glow of rapture, which lovers have felt, and poets de- 
scribed. Those starts of passion are not the basis for wedded 
felicity, which wisdom would choose, because they are only the 
delirium of a month, which possession destroys, and disappoint- 
ment follows. I have perfect confidence in the affection of 
Julia, though it is not of that intemperate kind which some 
brides have shown. Had you seen her eyes, how they spoke, 
when her father gave me her hand ! There was still reluctance 
in them, a reluctance more winning than all the flush of consent 
could have made her. Modesty and fear, esteem and gratitude, 
darkened and enlightened them by turns ; and those tears, 
those silent tears, which they shed, gave me a more sacred 
bond of her attachment, than it was in the power of words to 
have formed. 

I have sometimes allowed myself to think, or rather I have 
supposed you thinking, it might be held an imputation on the 
purity of her affection, that from an act of generosity towards 
her father, (with the circumstances of which I was under the 
necessity of acquainting you in my last,) her hand became 
rather a debt of gratitude than a gift of love. But there is a 
deception in those romantic sounds, which tell us, that pure af- 
fection should be unbiased in its disposal of a lover or a mis- 
tress. If they say that affection is a mere involuntary impulse, 
neither waiting the decisions of reason, or the dissuasives of 
prudence, do they not in reality degrade us to machines, which 
are blindly actuated by some uncontrollable power ? If they 
allow a woman reasonable motives for her attachment, what can 
be stronger than those sentiments which excite her esteem, and 
those proofs of them which produce her gratitude ? 

But why do I thus reason on my happiness 1 I feel no fears, 
no suspicion of alloy to it ; and I will not search for them in 
abstract opinion, or in distant conjecture. 

Tuesday next is fixed for the day that is to unite us ; the 
show and ceremony that mingle so ill with the feelings of a 
lime like this, our situation here renders unnecessary. A few 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 397 

of those simple ornaments, in which my Julia meets the gaze 
of the admiring rustics around us, are more congenial to her 
beauty, than all the trappings of vanity or magnificence. We 
propose passing a week or two here, before removing to Mont- 
auban, where I must then cany my wife, to show my people 
their mistress, and receive that sort of homage, which I hope I 
have taught them to pay from the heart. Those relations of 
my family, who live in that neighborhood, must come and learn 
to love me better than they did. Methinks I shall now be more 
easily pleased with them than I formerly was. I know not if 
it is nobler to despise insignificant people, than to bear with 
them coolly ; but I believe it is much less agreeable. The 
asperities of our own mind recoil on itself. Julia has shown 
me the bliss of losing them. 

Could I hope for my Segarva at Montauban 1 — Much as I 
doat on my lovely bride, there wants the last approval of my 
soul, till he smiles on this marriage, and blesses it. I know, 
there needs only his coming thither to grant this. I anticipate 
your answer, that now it is impossible ; but let it be a debt on 
the future, which the first of your leisure is to pay. Meantime 
believe me happy, and add to my happiness by telling me of 
your own. 



LETTER XXL 

Julia to Maria. 

Why should I tease you by writing of those little things 
which tease me in the doing 1 They tease, yet perhaps they 
are useful. At this time, I am afraid of a moment's leisure 
to be idle, and am even pleased with the happy impertinence 
of Lisette, whose joy, on my account gives her tongue much 
freedom. I call her often, when I have little occasion for her 
service, merely that I may have her protection from solitude. 

For the same reason I am somehow afraid of writing to you, 
which is only another sort of thinking. Do not, therefore, ex- 
pect to hear from me again till after Tuesday at soonest. — 
Maria ! you remember our fancy at school of showing our 
friendship by setting down remarkable days of one another's 
little joys and disappointments. Set down Tuesday next for 
your Julia — but leave its property blank. — Fate will fill it up 
one day ! 

34 



398 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER XXII. 

Lisette to Maria. 

Madame, — I hope my lady and you will both excuse my 
writing this, to give you notice of the happy event which has 
happened in our family. I made so bold as to ask her if she 
intended writing to you. " Lisette," said she, " I cannot write, 
I cannot indeed." So I have taken up the pen, who am a 
poor unworthy correspondent ; but your ladyship's goodness 
has made allowances for me in that way before, and, I hope, 
will do so still. 

The ceremony was performed yesterday. I think I never 
saw a more lovely figure than my lady's ; she is a sweet angel 
at all times, but I wish your ladyship had seen how she looked 
then. She was dressed in a white muslin nightgown, with striped 
lilac and white ribbands : her hair was kept in the loose way 
you used to make me dress it for her at Belville, with two wa- 
ving curls down one side of her neck, and a braid of little pearls 
— you made her a present of them. And to be sure, with her 
dark brown locks resting upon it, her bosom looked as pure 
white as the driven snow. And then her eyes, when she gave 
her hand to the count ! they were cast half down, and you might 
see her eyelashes, like strokes of a pencil, over the white of her 
skin — the modest gentleness, with a sort of a sadness too, as it 
were, and a gentle heave of her bosom at the same time. — ! 
Madame, you know I have not language, as my lady and you 
have, to describe such things ; but it made me cry, in truth it 
did, for very joy and admiration. There was a tear in my mas- 
ter's eye too, though I believe two happier hearts were not in 
France, than his and the Count de Montauban's. I am sure, I 
pray for blessings on all three, with more earnestness, that I do, 
than for myself. 

It seems, it is settled that the new married couple will not 
remain long here, but set out, in a week or two hence, for the 
count's principal seat, about six leagues distant from his house 
in our neighborhood, which is not large enough for entertaining 
the friends, whose visits they must receive on this joyful occa- 
sion. I fancy Monsieur de Roubigne will be much with them, 
though, I understand, he did not choose to accept of the count's 
pressing invitation to live with his daughter and him : but an 
elderly lady, a relation of my dear mistress that is gone, is to 
keep house for him. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 399 

I must break off now, for I hear my lady's bell ring, and your 
ladyship may believe we are all in a sort of buzz here. I dare 
to say she will not fail to write to you soon ; but meantime, 
hoping you will accept of this poor scrawling letter of mine, 
I remain, with due respect, your most faithful and obedient 
servant, Lisette. 

P. S. My lady is to have me with her at the Chateau de 
Montauban ; and, to be sure, I am happy to attend her, as I 
could willingly spend all the days of my life with so kind a lady, 
and so good conditioned. The count likewise has been so good 
to me, as I can't tell how, and said, that he hoped my mistress 
and I would never part, "if she does not grow jealous," said he 
merrily, " of so handsome a maid." And at that we all laughed, 
as to be sure we might. My lady will be a happy lady, I am 
sure. 



LETTER XXIII. 

Julia to Maria. 

My friend will, by this time, be chiding me for want of atten- 
tion to her ; yet, in truth, she has seldom been absent from my 
thoughts. Were we together but for a single hour, I should 
have much to tell you ; but there is an intricacy in my feelings 
on this change of situation, which, freely as I write to you,. I 
cannot manage on paper. I can easily imagine what you would 
first desire to know, though perhaps it is the last question you 
would put. The happiness of your Julia, I know, is ever the 
warmest object of your wishes. Ask me not why I cannot an- 
swer even this directly. Be satisfied when I tell you, that I 
ought to be happy. Montauban has every desire to make me so. 

One thing I wish to accomplish towards his peace and mine. 
The history of this poor heart I have entrusted only to your 
memory and my own : I will endeavor, though I know with 
how much difficulty, henceforth to forget it for ever. You must 
assist me, by holding it a blank, which recollection is no more 
to fill up. I know the weakness of my sex ; myself of that sex 
the weakest : I will not run the risk of calling up ideas, which 
were once familiar, ar d may not now be the less dangerous, nor 
the less readily listened to for the pain they have caused. My 
husband has now a right to every better thought ; it were unjusi 



400 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

to embitter those hours, which are but half the property of Julia 
de Montauban, with the remembrance of former ones, which 
belonged to sadness and Julia de Roubigne. 

We are on the eve of our departure for the family castle of 
Monsieur de Montauban. My father, whose happiness at pre- 
sent is a flattering testimony, as well as a support to my piety, 
accompanies us thither, but is soon to return home, where our 
cousin, La Pelliere, whom you may remember having seen with 
my mother in Paris, is to keep house for him. This separation 
I cannot help looking to as a calamity ; yet I believe his rea- 
sons for it are just. What a change in a woman's situation 
does this momentous connexion make ! — I will think no more 
of it. — Farewell. 



Yet a few words, to own my folly at least, if I cannot amend 
it. I went to assort some little articles of dress for carrying 
home with me ; while I was rummaging out a drawer to find 
one of them, a little picture of Savillon, drawn for him when a 
boy, by a painter who was accidentally in our neighborhood, 
crossed me in the way. You cannot easily imagine how this 
circumstance disconcerted me. I shut the drawer as if it had 
contained a viper ; then opened it again ; and again the coun- 
tenance of Savillon, mild and thoughtful, (for even then it was 
thoughtful,) met my view ! — Was it a consciousness of guilt 
that turned my eye involuntarily to the door of the apartment ? 
— Can there be any in accidentally thinking of Savillon? — Yet 
I fear I looked too long, and too impassionedly on this minia- 
ture. It was drawn with something sorrowful in the counte- 
nance, and methought it looked then more sorrowful than ever. 

The question comes strong upon me, how I should like that 
my husband had seen this ? — In truth, Maria, I fear my keeping 
this picture is improper ; yet at the time it was painted, there 
was one drawn for me by the same hand, and we exchanged 
resemblances without any idea of impropriety. Ye unfeeling 
decorums of the world ! — Yet it is dangerous, is it not, my best 
monitor, to think thus? — Yet, were I to return the picture, would 
it not look like a suspicion of myself? — I will keep it till you 
convince me I should not. 

Montauban and virtue ! I am yours. Suffer but one sigh to 
that weakness, which I have not yet been able to overcome. 
My heart, I trust, is innocent — blame it not for being unhappy. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 401 

LETTER XXIV. 

Julia to Maria. 

My father was with me this morning, in my chamber, for 
more than an hour. We sat sometimes silent, sometimes 
speaking ; interrupted sentences, and tears, were frequently all 
the intercourse we held. Lisette coming in to acquaint us that 
Montauban was in the parlor waiting us, at length put an end to 
our interview. " Julia," said my father, " I imagined I had 
much to say to you ; but the importance of my thoughts, on 
your behalf, stifles my expression of them. There are moments 
when I cannot help looking to that separation which your mar- 
riage will make between us, as if it were the loss of my child ; 
yet I have fortitude enough to resist the impression, and to 
reflect that she is going to be happy with the worthiest of men. 
My instructions for your conduct, in that state you have just 
entered into, your own sentiments, I trust, would render unne- 
cessary, were they in no other way supplied ; but I discovered 
lately, in your mother's bureau, a paper which still further super- 
sedes their necessity. It contains some advices which experi- 
ence and observation had enabled her to give, and her regard 
for you had prompted her to write down. 'Tis, however, only 
a fragment, which accident or diffidence of herself has prevented 
her completing ; but it is worthy of your serious perusal, and 
you will read it with more warmth than if it came from a general 
instructer." He left the paper with me ; I have read it with the 
care, with the affection, it deserves ; I send a copy of it now, 
as I would every good thing, for the participation of my friend. 
She cannot read it with the interest of a daughter ; but she will 
find it no cold, no common lecture. It speaks, if I am not too 
partial to the best of mothers, the language of prudence, but not 
of artifice ; it would mend the heart by sentiment, not cover it 
with dissimulation. She for whose use it was written, has need 
of such a monitor, and would listen to no other; if she has paid 
any debt to prudence, it was not from the obligation of wisdom, 
but the impulse of feeling. 



" For my daughter Julia. 

" Before this can reach you, the hand that writes it, and the 
heart that dictates, will be mouldering in the grave. I mean it 
to supply the place of some cautions, which I should think it my 

34* 



402 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

duty to deliver to you, should I live to see you a wife. The 
precepts it contains you have often heard me inculcate ; but I 
know that general observations on a possible event, have much 
less force than those which apply to our immediate condition. 
In the fate of a woman, marriage is the most important crisis : 
it fixes her in a state, beyond all others the most happy, or the 
most wretched ; and though mere precept can perhaps do little 
in any case, yet there is a natural propensity to try its efficacy 
in all. She who writes this paper, has been long a wife and a 
mother ; the experience of the one, and the anxiety of the other 
prompt her instructions ; and she has been too happy in both 
characters to have much doubt of their truth, or fear of their 
reception. 

" Sweetness of temper, affection to a husband, and attention 
to his interests, constitute the duties of a wife, and form the 
basis of matrimonial felicity. These are indeed the texts, from 
which every rule of attaining this felicity is drawn. The charms 
of beauty, and the brilliancy of wit, though they may captivate 
in the mistress, will not long delight in the wife ; they will 
shorten even their own transitory reign, if, as I have seen in 
many wives, they shine more for the attraction of every body else 
than of their husbands. Let the pleasing of that one person be 
a thought never absent from your conduct. If he loves you as 
you would wish he should, he will bleed at heart should he sup- 
pose it for a moment withdrawn ; if he does not, his pride will 
supply the place of love, and his resentment that of suffering. 

" Never consider a trifle what may tend to please him. The 
great articles of duty he will set down as his own ; but the lesser 
attentions he will mark as favors ; and trust me, for I have ex- 
perienced it, there is no feeling more delightful to one's self, 
than that of turning those little things to so precious a use. 

" If you marry a man of a certain sort, such as the romance 
of young minds generally paints for a husband, you will deride 
the supposition of any possible decrease in the ardor of your 
affections. But wedlock, even in its happiest lot, is not exempted 
from the common fate of all sublunary blessing ; there is ever a 
delusion in hope, which cannot abide with possession. The 
rapture of extravagant love will evaporate and waste ; the con- 
duct of the wife must substitute in its room other regards, as 
delicate, and more lasting. I say, the conduct of the wife ; for 
marriage, be a husband what he may, reverses the prerogative 
of sex ; his will expect to be pleased, and ours must be sedulous 
to please. 

" This privilege a good-natured man may waive ; he will feel 
it, however, due ; and third persons will have penetration enough 
to see, and may have malice enough to remark, the want of it in 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 403 

his wife. He must be a husband unworthy of you, who would 
bear the degradation of suffering this in silence. The idea of 
power on either side, should be totally banished from the sys- 
tem : it is not sufficient, that the husband should never have 
occasion to regret the want of it ; the wife must so behave, that 
he may never be conscious of possessing it. 

" But my Julia, if a mother's fondness deceives me not, 
stands not in much need of cautions like these. I cannot 
allow myself the idea of her wedding a man, on whom she 
would not wish to be dependant, or whose inclinations a temper 
like her's would desire to control. She will be more in danger 
from that softness, that sensibility of soul which will yield per- 
haps too much for the happiness of both. The office of a wife 
includes the exertion of a friend : a good one must frequently 
strengthen and support that weakness, which a bad one would 
endeavor to overcome. There are situations, where it will not 
be enough to love, to cherish, to obey ; she must teach her 
husband to be at peace with himself, to be reconciled to the 
world, to resist misfortune, to conquer adversity. Alas! my 
child, I am here an instructress but too well skilled ! These 
tears, with which this paper is soiled, fell not in the presence of 
your father, though now they but trace the remembrance of what 
then it was my lot to feel. Think it not impossible to restrain 
your feelings, because they are wrong. The enthusiasm of 
feeling will sometimes overcome distresses, which the cold 
heart of prudence had been unable to endure. 

" But misfortune is not always misery. I have known this 
truth ; I am proud to believe, that I have sometimes taught it 
to Roubigne. Thanks be to that Power, whose decrees I 
reverence ! He often tempered the anguish of our sufferings, 
till there was a sort of luxury in feeling them. Then is the 
triumph of wedded love 1 The tie that binds the happy may 
be dear ; but that which links the unfortunate is tenderness 
unutterable. 

"There are afflictions less easy to be endured, which your mo- 
ther has not experienced; those which a. husband inflicts, and the 
best wives feel the most severely. These, like all our sharpest 
calamities, the fortitude that can resist, can only cure. Com- 
plainings debase her who suffers, and harden him who aggrieves. 
Let not a woman always look for their cause in the injustice of 
her lord : they may proceed from many trifling errors in her 
own conduct, which virtue cannot blame, though wisdom must 
regret. If she makes this discovery, let them be amended with- 
out a thought, if possible — at any rate, without an expression of 
merit in amending them. In this, as in every other instance, 
it must never be forgotten, that the only government allowed 



404 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

on our side, is that of gentleness and attraction ; and that its 
power, like the fabled influence of imaginary beings, must be 
invisible to be complete. 

" Above all, let a wife beware of communicating to others 
any want of duty or tenderness she may think she has perceived 
in her husband. This untwists, at once, those delicate cords, 
which preserve the unity of the marriage engagement. Its 
sacredness is broken for ever, if third parties are made wit- 
nesses of its failings, or umpires of its disputes. It may seem 
almost profane in me to confess, that once, when, through the 
malice of an enemy, I was made, for a short time, to believe, that 
my Roubigne had wronged me, I durst not, even in my prayers 
to Heaven, petition for a restoration of his love ; I prayed to 
be made a better wife : when I would have said, a more beloved 
one, my utterance failed me for the word." 



LETTER XXV. 

Julia to Maria. 

We have got to the end of our journey ; and I am now 
mistress of this mansion. Our journey was too short, and too 
slow ; I wished for some mechanical relief from my feelings in 
the rapidity of a postchaise ; our progress was too stately to 
be expeditious, and we reached not this place, though but six 
leagues distant, till evening. 

Methinks I have suffered a good deal ; but my heart is not 
callous yet ; else wherefore was it wrung so, at leaving my 
father's peaceful retreat 1 I did not trust myself with looking 
back ; but I was too well acquainted with the objects, not to 
recollect every tree from the side window as we passed. A 
little ragged boy, who keeps some sheep of my father's, opened 
the gate for us at the end of the furthermost enclosure ; he 
pulled off his hat, which he had adorned with some gay-colored 
ribands, in honor of the occasion ; Montauban threw money 
into it, and the boy followed us, for some time, with a number 
of blessings. When he turned back, methought I envied him 
his return. The full picture of the place we had left, rose 
before me ; it needed all my resolution, and all my fears of 
offending, to prevent my weeping outright. At our dinner on 
the road, I was very busy, and affected to be very much pleased ; 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 405 

La Pelliere was a lucky companion for me ; you know how 
full she is of observation on trifles. When we approached the 
house, she spoke of every thing, and praised every thing ; I 
had nothing to do but to assent. 

We entered between two rows of lime trees, at the end of 
which is the gate of the house, wide and rudely magnificent ; 
its large leaves were opened to receive us, by an old but fresh- 
looking servant, who seemed too honest to be polite, and did not 
show me quite so much courtesy as some mistresses would have 
expected. All these circumstances, however, were in a style 
which my friend has heard me commend ; yet was I weak 
enough, not perfectly to relish them when they happened to 
myself. There was a presaging gloom about this mansion 
which filled my approach with terror ; and when Montauban's 
old domestic opened the coach door, I looked upon him as 
a criminal might do on the messenger of death. My dreams 
ever since have been full of horror ; and while I write these 
lines, the creaking of the pendulum of the great clock in the 
hall sounds like the knell of your devoted Julia. 

I expect you to rally me on my ideal terrors. You may 
remember, when we used to steal a midnight hour's conversa- 
tion together, you would laugh at my foreboding of a short 
period to my life, and often jeeringly tell me I was born to be a 
great-grandmother in my time. I know the foolishness of this 
impression, though I have not yet been able to conquer it. But 
to me it is not the source of disquiet ; I never feel more pos- 
sessed of myself, than at those moments when I indulge it the 
most. Why should I wish for long life 1 why should so many 
wish for it 1 Did we sit down to number the calamities of this 
world ; did we think how many wretches there are of disease, 
of poverty, of oppression, of vice, (alas ! I fear there are some 
even of virtue), we should change one idea of evil, and learn to 
look on death as a friend. 

This might a philosopher accomplish ; but a Christian, Maria, 
can do more. Religion has taught me to look beyond dissolu- 
tion. Religion has removed the darkness that covered the 
sepulchres of our fathers, and filled that gloomy void, which 
was only the retreat of hopeless affliction, with prospects, in 
contemplation of which, even the felicity of the world dwindles 
into nothing 1 

[My readers will easily perceive something particular in the 
place where the following letters of Savillon are found, as they 
are manifestly of a date considerably prior to many of the pre- 
ceding. They came to my hands, assorted in the manner I 
have now published them, probably from a view in my young 



406 JULIA DE ROTJBIGNE\ 

friend, who had the charge of their arrangement, of keeping the 
correspondence of Julia, which communicated the great train 
of her feelings on the subjects contained in it, as much undi- 
vided as possible. While I conjectured this reason for their 
present order, I was aware of some advantage, which these 
papers, as relating a story, might derive from an alteration in 
that particular ; but, after balancing those different considera- 
tions, without coming to any decision, my indolence, perhaps, 
(a stronger motive with most men than they are disposed to 
allow,) at length prevailed, and I resolved to give them to the 
public in the order they were transmitted to me from France. 
Many of the particulars they recount, are anticipated by a peru- 
sal of the foregoing letters ; but it is not so much on story, as 
sentiment, that their interest with the reader must depend.] 



LETTER XXVI. 

Savillon to Beauvaris. 

After a very unfavorable passage, we are at last arrived at 
our destined port. A ship is lying alongside of us, ready to 
sail for France, and every one on board, who can write, is now 
writing to some relation or friend, the hardships of his voyage, 
and the period of his arrival. How few has Savillon to greet 
with tidings ! to Roubigne I have already written ; to Beau- 
varis I am now writing ; and, when I have excepted these, 
there is not in France a single man, to whom I am entitled to 
write. Yet I mean not to class them together ; to Roubigne I 
owe the tribute of esteem, the debt of gratitude ; for you I feel 
something tenderer than either. Roubigne has been the guide, 
the father of my youth, and him I reverence as a parent ; you 
have been the friend, the brother of my soul, and with yours it 
mingles as with a part of itself. 

You remember the circumstances of our parting. You would 
not bid me adieu till the ship was getting under way. I believe 
you judged rightly, if you meant to spare us both. The bustle 
of the scene, the rattling of the sails, the noise of the sailors, 
had a mechanical effect on the mind, and stifled those tender 
feelings which we indulge in solitude and silence. When I 
went to bed, I had time to indulge them. I found it vain to 
attempt sleeping, and scarcely wished to succeed in attempting 
it. About midnight I arose, and went upon deck. The wind 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 407 

had been fair all day, and we were then, I suppose, more than 
thirty leagues from the shore. I looked on the arch of heaven, 
where the moon pursued her course unclouded ; and my ear 
caught no sound, except the stilly noise of the sea around me. 
I thought of my distance from France as of some illusive dream, 
and could not believe, without an effort, that it was not four-and- 
twenty hours since we parted. I recollected a thousand things 
which I should have said to you, and spoke them involuntarily 
in the ear of night. 

There was, my friend, there was one thing which I meant to 
have told you at parting. Had you staid a few moments longer 
in the room after the seaman called us, I should have spoken it 
then ; but you shunned being alone with me, and I could not 
command even words enough to tell you that I wished to speak 
with you in private. Hear it now, and pity your Savillon. 

Julia de Roubigne ! — Did you feel that name as I do ! — 
Even traced with my own pen, what throbbing remembrances 
has it raised : — You are acquainted with my obligations to her 
father ; you have heard me sometimes talk of her ; but you 
know not, for I trembled to tell you, the power she has acquired 
over the heart of your friend. 

The fate of my father, as well as mutual inclination, made 
Roubigne his friend ; for this last is of a temper formed rather 
to delight in the pride of assisting unfortunate worth than in the 
joy of knowing it in a better situation. After the death of my 
father, I became the ward of his friend's generosity ; a state I 
should have brooked but ill, had not Julia been his daughter. 
From those early days, when first I knew her, I remember her 
friendship as making part of my existence ; without her,pleasure 
was vapid, and sorrow, in her society, was changed into enjoy- 
ment. At that time of life, the mind has little reserve. We 
meant but friendship, and called it so without alarm. The 
love, to which at length I discovered my heart to be subject, 
had conquered without tumult, and become despotic under the 
semblance of freedom. 

The misfortunes of her family first showed me how I loved. 
When her father told them the ruined state of his fortune, when 
he prepared them for leaving the now alienated seat of his an- 
cestors, I was a spectator of the scene. When I saw the old 
man, with indignant pride, stifling the anguish of his heart, and 
pointing to the chaise that was to carry them from Belville, his 
wife, with one hand clasping her husband's, the other laid on 
her bosom, turning up to heaven a look of resignation ; his 
daughter striving to check her tears, kneeling before him, and 
vowing her duty to his misfortunes ; then did I first curse my 
poverty, which prevented me from throwing myself at her feet, 



408 JULIA BE ROUBIGNE. 

and bidding her parents be happy with their Julia ! The lux- 
ury of the idea still rushes on my mind ! — to heal the fortunes 
of my father's friend ; to justify the ways of Heaven to his 
saint-like wife ; to wipe the tears from the eyes of his angel 
daughter ! — Beauvaris, our philosophy is false ; power and 
wealth are the choicest gifts of Heaven ; to possess them, 
indeed, is nothing, but thus to use them, is rapture ! 

I had them not thus to use ; but what I could I did. I at- 
tended his family to that ancient mansion, which was now the 
sole property of the once opulent Roubigne. With unwearied 
attention I soothed his sorrows, and humbled myself before his 
misfortunes, as much as I had formerly resisted dependance on 
his prosperity 

He felt the assiduity of my friendship, and I saw him grateful 
for its exertion ; yet would the idea of being obliged, often 
rankle in his mind ; and T have seen him frequently look at me 
with an appearance of anger, when he thought I was conscious 
of obliging him. 

Far different was the gentle nature of his daughter. She 
thanked me with unfeigned gratitude for my services to her 
father, and seemed solicitous to compensate with her smiles 
for that want of acknowledgment she observed in him. 

Had my heart been free before, it was impossible to preserve 
its freedom now. A spectator of all those excellences which, 
though she ever possessed, her present situation alone could 
give full room to exert ; all that sublimity of mind which bore 
adversity unmoved ; all that gentleness, which contrived to 
lighten it to her father, and smooth the rankling of his haughty 
soul ! I applauded the election J had made, and looked on my 
love as a virtue. 

Yet there were moments of anxiety in which I feared the 
consequences of indulging this attachment. My own situation, 
the situation of Julia, the pride of her father, the pride which it 
was proper for herself to feel ; all these were present to my 
view, and showed me how little I could build on hope ; yet it 
cheated me, I know not how, and I dreamed, from day to day, 
of blessings, which every day's reflection told me were not to 
be looked for. 

There was, indeed, something in the scene around us, formed 
to create those romantic illusions. The retreat of Roubigne is 
a venerable pile, the remains of ancient Gothic magnificence, 
and the grounds adjoining to it, are in that style of melancholy 
grandeur, which marks the dwellings of our forefathers. One 
part of that small estate, which is still the appendage of this 
once respectable mansion, is a wild and rocky dell, were taste- 
less wealth has never warred on nature, nor even elegance 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 409 

refined or embellished her beauties. The walks are only worn 
by the tread of the shepherds, and the banks only smoothed by 
the feeding of their flocks. There, too dangerous society ! 
have I passed whole days with Julia ; there more dangerous 
still ! have I passed whole days in thinking of her. 

A circumstance, trifling in itself, added not a little to the fas- 
cination of the rest. The same good woman who nursed me, 
was also the nurse of Julia. She was too fond of her foster- 
daughter and too well treated by her, ever to leave the fortunes 
of her family. To this residence she attended them when they 
left Belville, and here too, as at that place, had a small house 
and garden allotted her. It was situated at the extreme verge 
of that dell I have described, and was often the end of those 
walks we took through it together. The good Lasune, for that 
is our nurse's name, considered us her children, and treated us, 
in those visits to her little dwelling, with that simplicity of affec- 
tion, which has the most powerful effect on the hearts of sensi- 
bility. Oh ! Beauvaris ! methinks I see the figure of Lasune, 
at this moment pointing out to your friend, with rapture in her 
countenance, the beauties of her lovely daughter ! She places 
our seats together ; she produces her shining platters, with fruit 
and milk, for our repast ; she presses the smiling Julia, and 
will not be denied by Savillon ! — Am I then a thousand leagues 
distant ? 

Does Julia remember Savillon 1 — Should I hope that she 
does ? My friend, I will confess my weakness ; perhaps it is 
worse than weakness ; I have wished — I have hoped that I 
am not indifferent to her. Often have I been on the point of 
unloading my throbbing heart, of telling her how passionately I 
loved, of asking her forgiveness for my presumption. I have 
thought, perhaps it was vanity, that at some seasons she might 
have answered, and blessed me ; but I saw the consequences 
which would follow to both, and had fortitude enough to resist 
the impulse. A time may come, when better fortune shall en- 
title me to speak ; when the pride of Roubigne may not blush 
to look on Savillon as his son. 

But this is the language of visionary hope ! In the mean- 
time, I am torn from her, from France, from every connexion 
my heart had formed ; cast, like a shipwrecked being, on the 
other side of the Atlantic, amidst a desert, of all others the most 
dreadful, the desert of society, with which no social tie unites 
me ! Where now are Roubigne's little copses, where his winding 
walks, his nameless rivulets 1 Where the ivied gate of his ven- 
erable dwelling, the Gothic windows of his echoing hall 1 That 
morning on which I set out for Paris, is still fresh on my mem- 
ory. I could not bear the formality of parting, and stole from 

35 



410 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

his house by daybreak. As I passed the hall, the door was 
open ; I entered to take one last look, and bid it adieu ! I had 
sat in it with Julia the night before ; the chairs we had occupied 
were still in their places ; you know not, my friend, what I felt 
at the sight : there was something in the silent attitude of those 
very chairs, that wrung my heart beyond the power of language ; 
and I believe the servant had told me that my horses waited, 
five or six times over, before I could listen to what he said. 



A gentleman has sent to ask if my name is Savillon ; if it 
is, he desires his compliments, and will do himself the pleasure 
of waiting on me. I started to hear my name thus asked for in 
Martinique. 



This gentleman is a sea captain, a particular acquaintance 
of my uncle ; he is more, Beauvaris, he is an acquaintance of 
Roubigne, has been often at Belville, has sometimes seen my 
Julia. We are intimate already, and he has offered to conduct 
me to my uncle's house ; his horses, he says, are in waiting. 

Adieu, my dearest friend ! think of me often ; write to me 
often. Though you should seldom have an opportunity of con- 
veying letters, yet write as if you had ; make a journal of intel- 
ligence, and let it come when it may. Tell me every thing, 
though I should ask nothing. Your letters must give me back 
my country, and nothing is a trifle that belongs to her. 



LETTER XXVII. 

Savillon to Beauvaris. 

It is now a week since I reached my uncle's, during all 
which time I have been so much occupied in answering ques- 
tions to the curiosity of others, or asking questions for the sat- 
isfaction of my own, that I have scarce had a moment left for 
any other employment. 

I have now seized the opportunity of the rest of the family 
being still abed, to write to you an account of this uncle, — of 
him under whose protection I am to rise into life, under whose 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 411 

guidance I am to thrid the mazes of the world. I fear I am 
unfit for the task ; I must unlearn feelings in which I have long 
been accustomed to delight ; I must accommodate sentiments 
to conveniency, pride to interest, and sometimes even virtue 
itself to fashion. 

But is all this absolutely necessary? — I hate to believe it. I 
have been frequently told so indeed ; but my authorities are 
drawn either from men who have never entered the scene at 
all, or, entered it, resolved to be overcome, without the trouble 
of resistance. To think too meanly of mankind, is dangerous 
to our reverence of virtue. 

It is supposed, that in these wealthy islands, profit is the only 
medium of opinion, and that morality has nothing to do in the 
system ; but I cannot easily imagine that, in any latitude, the 
bosom is shut to those pleasures which result from the exercise 
of goodness, or that honesty should be always so unsuccessful 
as to have the sneer of the million against it. Men will not be 
depraved beyond the persuasion of some motive, and self-inter- 
est will often be the parent of social obligation. 

My uncle is better fitted for judging of this question ; he is 
cool enough to judge of it from experience, without being mis- 
led by feeling. — He believes there are many more honest deal- 
ings than honest men, but that there are more honest men than 
knaves everywhere; that common sense will keep them so, 
even exclusive of principle ; but that all may be vanquished by 
adequate temptation. 

With a competent share of plain useful parts, and a certain 
steady application of mind, he entered into commerce at an 
early period of life. Not apt to be seduced by the glare of 
great apparent advantage, nor easily intimidated from his pur- 
poses by accidental disappointment, he has led on, with some 
vicissitude of fortune, but with uniform equality of temper, till, in 
virtue of his abilities, his diligence, and his observation, he has 
acquired very considerable wealth. He still, however, continues 
the labor of the race, though he has already reached the goal ; 
not because he is covetous of greater riches, but because the 
industry by which greater riches are acquired, is grown neces- 
sary to his enjoyment of life. " I have been long," said he, 
yesterday, "a very happy man; having had a little less time, 
and a little more money, than I know what to make of." 

The opinion of the world he trusts but little, in his judgment 
of others ; of men's actions ho speaks with caution, either in 
praise or blame, and is commonly most skeptical, when those 
around him are most convinced ; for it is a maxim with him, in 
questions of character, to doubt of strong evidence, from the 
very circumstance of its strength. 



412 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

With regard to himself, however, he accepts of the common 
opinion as a sort of coin which passes current, though it is not 
always real, and often seems to yield up the conviction of his 
own mind in compliance with the general voice. Ever averse 
to splendid project in action, or splendid conjecture in argument, 
he contents himself with walking in the beaten track of things, 
and does not even venture to leave it, though he may, now and 
then, observe it making small deviations from reason and justice. 
He has sometimes, since our acquaintance began, tapped me on 
the shoulder, in the midst of some sentiment I was uttering, and 
told me, with a smile, that these were fine words, and did very 
well in the mouth of a young man. Yet he seems not displeased 
with my feeling what himself does not feel ; and looks on me 
with a more favorable eye, that I have something about me for 
experience and observation to prune. 

His plan of domestic economy is regular, but nobody is dis- 
turbed by its regularity ; for he is perfectly free from that rigid 
attention to method, which one frequently sees in the houses of 
old bachelors. He has sense or sang froid enough not to be 
troubled with little disarrangements, and bears with wonderful 
complacency, and consequently with great ease to his guests, 
those accidents which disturb the peace of other entertainments. 
Since my arrival, we have had every day something like a feast, 
probably from a sort of compliment which his friends meant to 
pay to him and to me ; but at his table, in its most elevated style, 
the government is nearly republican ; he assumes very little 
either of the trouble or the dignity of a landlord, satisfied with 
giving a general assurance of welcome and good-humor in his 
aspect. 

At one of those dinners was a neighbor, an intimate acquaint- 
ance of my uncle, a Mr. Dorville, with his wife and daughter. 
The young lady was seated next me, and my uncle seemed to 
incline that I should be particularly pleased with her. He ad- 
dressed such discourse to her as might draw her forth to the 
greatest advantage ; and, as he had heard me profess myself a 
lover of music, he made her sing after dinner, till, I believe, 
some of the company began to be tired of their entertainment. 
After they were gone, he asked my opinion of Mademoiselle 
Dorville, in that particular style by which a man gives you to 
understand that his own is a very favorable one. To say truth, 
the lady's appearance is in her favor; but there is a jealous sort 
of feeling which arises in my mind, when I hear the praises of 
any woman but one ; and from that cause, perhaps, I answered 
my uncle rather coldly. I saw he thought so from the reply he 
made ; I made some awkward apology ; he smiled, and said I 
was a philosopher. Alas ! he knows not how little claim I have 






JULIA DE ROUBIGNE, 413 

to philosophy in that way ; if, indeed, we are so often to profane 
that word, by affixing to it the idea of insensibility. 

To-day I begin business. My uncle and I are to view his 
different plantations, and he is to show me, in general, the pro- 
vince he means to allot me. I wish for an opportunity to be 
assiduous in his service ; till I can do something on my part, 
his favors are debts upon me. It is only to a friend like my 
Beauvaris, that one feels a pleasure in being obliged. 



LETTER XXVIII. 

Savillon to Beauvaris. 

A thousand thanks for your last letter. When you know 
how much I enjoyed the unwieldy appearance of the packet, 
with my friend's hand on the back of it, you will not grudge the 
time it cost you. It is just such as I wished ; your scene- 
painting is delightful. No man is more susceptible of local 
attachments than I ; and, with the Atlantic between, there is not 
a stone in France that I can remember with indifference. 

Yet I am happier here than I could venture to expect. Had 
I been left to my own choice, I should probably have sat down 
in solitude, to think of the past, and enjoy my reflections ; but I 
have been forced to do better. There is an active duty which 
rewards every man in the performance ; and my uncle has so 
contrived matters that I have had very little time unemployed. 
He has been liberal of instruction, and I hope has found me 
willing to be instructed. Our business, indeed, is not very 
intricate ; but, in the simplest occupations, there are a thousand 
little circumstances which experience alone can teach us. In 
certain departments, however, I have tried projects of my own; 
some of them have failed in the end, but all gave me pleasure in 
the pursuit. In one I have been successful beyond expectation ; 
and in that one I was the most deeply interested, because it 
touched the cause of humanity. 

To a man not callous from habit, the treatment of the negroes, 
in the plantations here, is shocking. I felt it strongly, and could 
not forbear expressing my sentiments to my uncle. He allow- 
ed them to be natural, but pleaded necessity, in justification of 
those severities which his overseers sometimes used towards his 
slaves. I ventured to doubt this proposition, and begged he 
would suffer me to try a different mode of government in one 

35* 



414 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

plantation, the produce of which he had already alloted to my 
management. He consented, though with the belief that I 
should succeed very ill in the experiment. 

I began by endeavoring to ingratiate myself with such of the 
slaves as could best speak the language of my country ; but I 
found this was a manner they did not understand ; and that, 
from a white, the appearance of indulgence carried the suspicion 
of treachery. Most of them, to whom rigor had become habit- 
ual, took the advantage of its remitting to neglect their work 
altogether ; but this only served to convince me that my plan 
was a good one, and that I should undoubtedly profit, if I could 
establish some other motive, whose impulse was more steady 
than those of punishment and terror. 

By continuing the mildness of my conduct, I at last obtained 
a degree of willingness in the service of some ; and I was still 
induced to believe, that the most savage and sullen among them 
had principles of gratitude, which a good master might improve 
to his advantage. 

One slave, in particular, had for some time attracted my no- 
tice, from that gloomy fortitude with which he bore the hard- 
ships of his situation. Upon inquiring of the overseer, he told 
me, that this slave, whom he called Yambu, though from his 
youth and appearance of strength, he had been accounted valu- 
able, yet, from the untractable stubbornness of his disposition, 
was worth less money than almost any other in my uncle's 
possession. This was a language natural to the overseer. I 
answered him, in his own style, that I hoped to improve his 
price some hundreds of livres. On being further informed, that 
several of his fellow-slaves had come from the same part of the 
Guinea coast with him, I sent for one, of them who could speak 
tolerable French, and questioned him about Yambu. He told 
me, that, in their own country, Yambu was master of them all ; 
that they had been taken prisoners, when fighting in his cause, 
by another prince, who, in one battle, was more fortunate than 
theirs ; that he had sold them to some white men who came, in 
a great ship, to their coast ; that they were afterwards brought 
hither, where other white men purchased them from the first, and 
set them to work where I saw them ; but that, when they died, 
and went beyond the great mountains, Yambu should be their 
master again. 

I dismissed the negro, and called this Yambu before me. 

When he came, he seemed to regard me with an eye of per- 
fect indifference. One who had inquired no further, would have 
concluded him possessed of that stupid insensibility, which Eu- 
ropeans often mention as an apology for their cruelties. I took 
his hand ; he considered this a prologue to chastisement! and 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 415 

turned his back to receive the lashes he supposed me ready to 
inflict. " I wish to be the friend of Yatnbu," said I. He made 
me no answer. I let go his hand, and he suffered it to drop to 
its former posture. " Can this man have been a prince in 
Africa?" said 1 to myself. I reflected for a moment. "Yet 
what should he now do, if he has? — Just what I see him do. I 
have seen a deposed sovereign at Paris ; but in Europe, kings 
are artificial beings like their subjects. Silence is the only 
throne which adversity has left to princes." 

" I fear," said I to him, " you have been sometimes treated 
harshly by the overseer ; but you shall be treated so no more ; I 
wish all my people to be happy." He looked on me now for the 
first time. — " Can you speak my language, or shall I call for 
some of your friends who can explain what you would say to 
me ?" — " I speak no say to you," he replied in his broken French. 
— "And you will not be my friend ?" — "No." — "Even if I 
should deserve it?"— "You a white man." — I felt the rebuke 
as I ought. — "But all white men are not overseers. What shall 
I do to make you think me a good man?" — " Use men goodly." 
— " I mean to do so, and you among the first, Yambu." — " Be 
good for Yambu's people ; do your please with Yambu." 

Just then the bell rung as a summons for the negroes to go to 
work ; he made a few steps towards the door. " Would you 
now go to work," said I, "if you were at liberty to avoid it?" — 
" You make go for whip, and no man love go." " I will go 
along with you, though I am not obliged ; for I choose to work 
sometimes rather than be idle." — " Choose work, no work at 
all," said Yambu. — 'Twas the very principle on which my 
system was founded. 

I took him with me into the house when our task was over. 
" I wrought choose work," said I, " Yambu, yet I did less than 
3'ou !" — " Yambu do choose work then too." — " You shall do 
so always," answered I ; " from this moment you are mine no 
more!" — "You sell me other white men, then ?" — "No, you 
are free, and may do whatever you please !" — " Yambu's please 
no here, no this country?" he replied, waving his hand, and 
looking wistfully towards the sea. " I cannot give you back 
your country, Yambu ; but I can make this one better for you, 

You can make it better for me too, and for your people !" 

" Speak Yambu that," said he eagerly, " and be good man !" — * 
♦* You would not," said I, " make your people work by the whip, 
as you see the overseers do?" — "Oh! no, no whip!" — "Yet 
they must work, else we shall have no sugars to buy them meat 
and clothing with." — (He put his hand to his brow, as if I had 
started a difficulty he was unable to overcome.) — "Then you 
shall have the command of them, and they shall work choose 



416 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE\ 

work for Yambu." — He looked askance, as if he doubted the 
truth of what I said ; I called the negro with whom I had the 
first conversation about him ; and, pointing to Yambu, " Your 
master," said I, " is now free, and may leave you when he 
pleases !" — " Yambu no leave you," said he to the negro 
warmly. — "But he may accompany Yambu if he chooses." 
Yambu shook his head. " Master," said his former sub- 
ject, " where we go ? leave good white men, and go to bad ; 
for much bad white men in this country." " Then, if you think 
it better, you shall both stay ; Yambu shall be my friend, and 
help me to raise sugars for the good of us all ; you shall have 
no overseer but Yambu, and shall work no more than he bids 
you." The negro fell at my feet, and kissed them ; Yambu 
stood silent, and I saw a tear on his cheek. " This man has 
been a prince in Africa," said I to myself. 

I did not mean to deceive them. Next morning I called 
those negroes who had formerly been in his service together, 
and told them that, while they continued in the plantation, Yam- 
bu was to superintend their work : that if they chose to leave 
him and me, they were at liberty to go ; and that, if found idle 
or unworthy they should not be allowed to stay. He has, ac- 
cordingly, ever since had the command of his former subjects, 
and superintended their work in a particular quarter of the plan- 
tation ; and having been declared free, according to the mode 
prescribed by the laws of the island, has a certain portion of 
ground allotted him, the produce of which is his property. I 
have had the satisfaction of observing those men, under the 
feeling of good treatment, and the idea of liberty, do more than 
almost double their number subject to the whip of an overseer. 
I am under no apprehension of desertion or mutiny ; they work 
with the willingness of freedom, yet are mine with more than 
the obligation of slavery. 

I have been often tempted to doubt, whether there is not an 
error in the whole plan of negro servitude, and whether whites, 
or Creoles born in the West Indies, or perhaps cattle, after the 
manner of European husbandry, would not do the business 
better and cheaper than the slaves do. The money which the 
latter cost at first, the sickness (often owing to despondency of 
mind) to which they are liable after their arrival, and the pro- 
portion that die in consequence of it, make the machine, if it 
may be so called, of a plantation, extremely expensive in its 
operations. In the list of slaves belonging to a wealthy planter, 
it would astonish you to see the number unfit for service, pining 
under disease, a burden on their master. I am talking only as 
a merchant ; — but as a man — good heavens ! when I think of 
the many thousands of my fellow creatures groaning under ser- 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 417 

vitude and misery ! — Great God ! hast thou peopled those 
regions of thy world for the purpose of casting out their inhab- 
itants to chains and torture 1 — No ; thou gavest them a land 
teeming with good things, and lightedst up thy sun to bring 
forth spontaneous plenty ; but the refinements of man, ever at 
war with thy works, have changed this scene of profusion and 
luxuriance, into a theatre of rapine, of slavery, and of murder ! 

Forgive the warmth of this apostrophe : here it would not be 
understood ; even my uncle, whose heart is far from a hard 
one, would smile at my romance, and tell me that things must 
be so. Habit, the tyrant of nature and of reason, is deaf to the 
voice of either ; here she stifles humanity and debases the spe- 
cies — for the master of slaves has seldom the soul of a man. 

This is not difficult to be accounted for : from his infancy 
he is made callous to those feelings, which soften at once and 
ennoble our nature. Children must, of necessity, first exert 
those towards domestics, because the society of domestics is 
the first they enjoy ; here they are taught to command for the 
sake of commanding, to beat and torture for pure amusement ; 
— their reason and good nature improve as may be expected. 

Among the legends of an European nursery, are stories of 
captives delivered, of slaves released, who had pined for years 
in the durance of unmerciful enemies. Could we suppose its 
infant audience transported to the seashore, where a ship laden 
with slaves is just landing : the question would be universal, 
" Who shall set these poor people free V — The young West 
Indian asks his father to buy a boy for him, that he may have 
something to vent his spite on when he is peevish. 

Methinks too, these people lose a sort of connexion which 
is of more importance in life than most of the relationships we 
enjoy. The ancient, the tried domestic of a family, is one 
of its most useful members, one of its most assured supports. 
My friend, the ill-fated Roubigne, has not one relation who has 
stoad by him in the shipwreck of his fortunes ; but the storm 
could not sever from their master his faithful Le Blanc, or the 
venerable Lasune. 

Oh, Beauvaris ! I sometimes sit down alone, and transporting 
myself into the little circle at Roubigne's, grow sick of the world, 
and hate the part which I am obliged to perform in it. 



418 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER XXIX.* 

Savillon to Beauvaris. 

Since the date of my last, is a longer period than you allow 
between my letters ; but my time has been more than com- 
monly occupied of late. Among other employments was that 
of acquiring a friend. Be not, however, jealous ; my heart 
cannot own a second in the same degree with Beauvaris ; yet 
is this one above the level of ordinary men. He enjoys also 
that privilege which misfortune bestows on the virtuous. 

Among those, with whom my uncle's extensive dealings have 
connected him, he had mentioned, with particular commendation, 
one Herbert, an Englishman, a merchant in one of the British 
West India islands. Chance brought him lately to Martinique, 
and I was solicitous to show every possible civility to one, who, 
to the claim of a stranger, added the character of a worthy and 
amiable man. Prepossessed as I was in his favor, my expec- 
tations fell short of the reality. I discovered in him a delicacy 
and fineness of sentiment, which something beyond the edu- 
cation of a trader must have inspired ; and I looked on him 
perhaps with the greater reverence, from the circumstance of 
having found him in a station where I did not expect he 
would be found. On a closer investigation, I perceived a tinc- 
ture of melancholy enthusiasm in his mind, which I was per- 
suaded, was not altogether owing to the national character, but 
must have arisen from some particular cause. This increased 
my regard for him ; and I could not help expressing it in the 
very style which was suited to its object, a quiet and still atten- 
tion, sympathetic, but not intrusive. He seemed to take notice 
of my behaviour, and looked as if he had found a person who 
guessed him to be unhappy, and to whom he could talk of his 
unhappiness. I encouraged the idea with that diffidence, which 
I believe, is of all manners the most intimate with a mind of the 
sort I have described ; and, soon after, he took an opportunity 
of telling me the story of his misfortunes. 

It was simple, but not the less pathetic. Inheriting a con- 
siderable fortune from his father, he set out in trade with every 
advantage. Soon after he was settled in business, he married 

* It is proper to apologize for introducing a letter so purely episodical. I 
might perhaps say, that it is not altogether unnecessary, as it introduces a 
person, whose correspondent Savillon becomes at a future period ; but I must 
once more resort to an egotism for the true reason : the picture it exhibited 
pleased myself, and I could not resist the desire of laying it before my readers, 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 419 

a beautiful and excellent woman, for whom from his infancy, he 
had conceived the tenderest attachment ; and, about a year after 
their marriage, she blessed him with a son. But love and for- 
tune did not long continue to smile upon him. Losses in trade, 
to which, though benevolence like his be more exposed, the 
most prudent and unfeeling are liable, reduced him, from his 
affluence, to very embarrassed circumstances ; and his distress 
was aggravated from the consideration, that he did not suffer 
alone, but communicated misfortune to a woman he passionately 
loved. Some very considerable debts remained due to him in 
the West Indies, and he found it absolutely necessary, for their 
recovery, to repair thither himself, however terrible might be a 
separation from his wife, now in a situation of all others the 
most susceptible. They parted, and she was soon after deliv- 
ered of a girl, whose promising appearance, as well as that of 
her brother, was some consolation for the absence of their father. 

His absence, though cruel, was necessary, and he found his 
affairs in such a situation, that it promised not to be long. Day 
after day, however, elapsed, without their final settlement. The 
impatience both of his wife and him was increased, by the 
appearance of a conclusion, which so repeatedly disappointed 
them ; till, at last, he ventured to suggest, and she warmly 
approved, the expedient of coming out to a husband, whose 
circumstances prevented him from meeting her at home. She 
set sail with her children ; but wife or children never reached 
the unfortunate Herbert ! they perished in a storm soon after 
their departure from England. 

You can judge of the feelings of a man who upbraided him- 
self as their murderer. An interval of madness, he informed 
me, succeeded the account he received of their death. When 
his reason returned, it settled into a melancholy, which time has 
soothed, not extinguished, which indeed seems to have become 
the habitual tone of his mind. Yet it is gentle, though deep, in 
its effects ; it disturbs not the circle of society around him, and 
few, except such as are formed to discover and to pity it, ob- 
serve any thing peculiar in his behaviour. But he holds it not 
the less sacred to himself; and often retires from the company 
of those whom he has entertained with the good-humor of a well 
bred man, to arrange the memorials of his much-loved Emily, 
and call up the sad remembrance of his former joys. 

Having acquired a sort of privilege with his distress, from 
my acquaintance with its cause, I entered his room yesterday, 
when he had thus shut out the world, and found him with some 
letters on the table before him, on which he looked with a tear, 
not of anguish, but of tenderness. I stopped short on perceiv- 
ing him thus employed ; he seemed unable to speak, but making 



420 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

a movement, as if he desired that I should come forward, put 
two of those letters successively into my hand. They were 
written by his wife ; the first, soon after their marriage, when 
some business had called him away from her into the country ; 
and the second addressed to him in the West Indies, where, by 
that time, their ill fortune had driven him. They pleased me 
so much, that I asked his leave to keep them for a day or two. 
He would not absolutely refuse me ; but said, they had never 
been out of his possession. I pressed him no further : I could 
only read them over repeatedly, and some parts that struck 
more forcibly on my memory, which you know is pretty tena- 
cious, I can recollect almost verbatim. To another, it might 
seem odd to write such things as these ; but my Beauvaris is 
never inattentive to the language of nature, or the voice of mis- 
fortune. 

In the first letter were the following expressions : 
" You knew not what feelings are here, at thus, for the first 
time, writing to my Henry under the name of husband — A 
mixture of tenderness, of love, of esteem, and confidence. A 
something, never experienced before, is so warm in my heart, 
that sure it is, at this moment, more worthy of his love than 
ever. Shall not this last, my Henry, notwithstanding what I 
have heard from the vscoffers among you men 1 I think it will. 
It is not a tumultuous transport, that must suddenly disappear : 
but the soft, still pleasure of a happy mind, that can feel its 
happiness, and delight in its cause. 

" I have had little company since you left me, and I wish not 
for much. The idea of my Henry is my best companion. I 
have figured out your journey, your company, and your busi- 
ness, and filled up my hours with the picture of what they are 
to you." 

****** 

" John has just taken away my chicken ; you know he 
takes liberties — ' Dear heart, a leg and wing only ! — Betty 
says, Madam, the cheesecakes are excellent.' I smiled at 
John's manner of pressing, and helped myself to a cheesecake. 
The poor fellow looked so happy — ' My master will soon re- 
turn,' said he, by way of accounting for my puny dinner. He 
set the wine upon the table : I filled out half a glass, and began 
to think of you ; but, in carrying it to my lips, I reproached 
myself that it was not a bumper : and was remedied as it should 
be. John, I believe, guessed at the correction. ' God bless 
him !' I heard him say, muttering as he put up the things in his 
basket. I sent him down with the rest of the bottle, and they 
are now drinking your health in the kitchen." 
% % % 3fc % ^ 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 421 

" My cousin Harriet has come in to see me, and is going on 
with the cap I was making up, while I write this by her. She 
is a better milliner than I, and would have altered it somewhat ; 
but I stuck to my own way, for I heard you say you liked it in 
that shape. ' It is not half so fashionable, indeed, my dear,' 
said Harriet ; but she does not know the luxury of making up 
a cap to please the husband one loves. This is all very foolish ; 
is it not? but I love to tell you those trifles : it is like having 
you here. If you can, write to me just such a letter about you." 



Of the other letter, I recollect some passages such as these : 
*« Captain Lewson has just now been with me, but has brought 
no letter ; and gives for reason, your having written by a ship 
that left the island but a few days before him, meaning the 
Triton, by which I got your last ; but I beg to hear from you by 
every opportunity, especially by so friendly a hand as Lewson : 
it would endear a man, to whom I have reason to be grateful, 
much more to me, that he brought a few lines from you. Think, 
my dearest Henry, that hearing from you is all that your Emily 
has now to expect, at least for a long, long time. 

" Perhaps (as you sometimes told me, in former days, when, 
alas ! we only talked of misfortunes) we always think our present 
calamity the bitterest ; yet, methinks, our separation is the only 
evil for which I could not have found a comfort. In truth, we 
were not unhappy : health and strength were left us : we could 
have done much for one another, and for our dear little ones. 
I fear, my love, you thought of me less nobly, than I hope I 
deserved : I was not to be shocked by any retrenchment from 
our former way of living, I could have borne even the hardships 
of poverty, had it left me my Henry." 

" Your sweetmeats arrived very safe under the care of Cap- 
tain Lewson ; the children have profited by them, particularly 
Billy, who has still some remains of the hooping cough. lie 
asked me, if they did not come from papa ? ' and when,' said 
he, ' will papa come himself? * Papa,' cried my little Emmy, 
who has just learned to lisp the word. ' She never saw papa,' 
replied her brother, * did she, mamma?' I could not stand this 
prattle ; my boy wept with me for company's sake !" 

7fc Tf; ifc 7f* *T» "T* 

" Emmy, they tell me will be a beauty. She has, to say 
truth, lovely dark blue eyes, and a charming complexion. I 
think there is something of melancholy in her looks : but this 

36 



422 JULIA DE ROTJBIGNE. 

may be only my fancy. Billy is quite different, a bold, spirited 
child ; yet he is remarkably attentive to every thing I endeavor 
to teach him, and can read a little already, with no other tutor 
than myself. I chose this task to amuse my lonely hours ; for 
I make it a point of duty, to keep up my spirits as well as I 
can. Sometimes, indeed, I droop in spite of me, especially 
when you seem to waver about the time of your return. Think, 
my love, what risks your health runs, for the sake of those 
riches, which are of no use without it ; and after all, it is chiefly 
in opinion, that their power of bestowing happiness consists. 
I am sure, the little parlor, in which I now write, is more snug 
and comfortable, than the large room we used to receive com- 
pany in formerly ; and the plain meal, to which I sit down with 
my children, has more relish than the formal dinners we were 
obliged to invite them to. Return, then, my dearest Henry, 
from those fatigues and dangers, to which, by your own account, 
you are obliged to be exposed. Return to your Emily's love, 
and the smiles of those little cherubs that wait your arrival." 



Such was the wife whom Herbert lost ; you will not wonder 
at his grief; yet, sometimes, when the whole scene is before 
me, I know not how, I almost enxy him his tears. 

It is something to endeavor to comfort him. 'Tis perhaps a 
selfish movement in our nature, to conceive an attachment to 
such a character ; one that throws itself on our pity by feeling 
its distresses, is ever more beloved than that which rises above 
them. I know, however, without further inquiry, that I feel 
myself pleased with being the friend of Herbert ; would we were 
in France, that I might make him the friend of Beauvaris ! 

Your last mentions nothing of Roubigne or his family. I 
know he dislikes writing, and therefore am not surprised at his 
silence to myself. You say, in a former letter, you find it 
difficult to hear of them ; there is a young lady in Paris, for 
whom the lovely Julia has long entertained a very uncommon 
friendship ; her name is Roncilles, daughter of the President 
Roncilles. Yet, on second thoughts, I would not have you visit 
her on purpose to make inquiry as for me ; but you may fall on 
some method of getting intelligence of them in this line. 

Do not let slip the opportunity of this ship's return to write 
me fully ; she is consigned to a correspondent of ours, and 
particular care will be taken of my letters. I think, if that had 
been the case with the last that arrived here, I should have 
found one from you on board of her. Think of me frequently,, 
and write to me as often as our situation will allow. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 423 

LETTER XXX. 

Savillon to Beauvaris. 

I begin to suspect, that the sensibility of which young minds 
are proud, from which they look down with contempt on the 
unfeeling multitude of ordinary men, is less a blessing than an 
inconvenience. Why cannot I be as happy as my uncle, as 
Dorville, as all the other good people around me ? I eat, and 
drink, and sing, nay, I can be merry, like them ; but they close 
the account, and set down this mirth for happiness ; I retire 
to the family of my own thoughts, and find them in weeds of 
sorrow. 

Herbert left this place yesterday ! the only man besides thee 
whom my soul can acknowledge as a friend. And him, per- 
haps, I shall see no more : And thee ! my heart droops at this 
moment, and I could weep without knowing why. Tell me, as 
soon as possible, that you are well and happy; there is, methinks, 
a languor in your last letter — or is it but the livery of my own 
imagination, which the objects around me are constrained to 
wear ? 

Herbert was a sort of proxy for my Beauvaris ; he spoke 
from the feelings of a heart like his. To him I could unbosom 
mine, and be understood ; for the speaking of a common lan- 
guage, is but one requisite towards the dearest intercourse of 
society. His sorrows gave him a sacredness in my regard, 
that made every endeavor to serve or oblige him, like the per- 
formance of a religious duty ; there was a quiet satisfaction in 
it, which calmed the rufflings of a sometimes troubled spirit, 
and restored me to peace with myself. 

He has sailed for England, whither some business, material 
to a friend of his much-loved Emily, obliges him to return. 
He yields to this, I perceive, as a duty he thinks himself bound 
to discharge, though the sight of his native country, spoiled as 
it is of those blessings which it once possessed for him, must 
be no easy trial of his fortitude. He talks of leaving it as soon 
as this affair will allow him, not to return to the West Indies, 
(for of his business there he is now independent,) but to travel 
through some parts of Europe, which the employments of his 
younger years prevented him from visiting at an early period of 
life. If he goes to Paris, he has promised me to call on you. 
Could I be with you ! — AVhat a thought is there ! — but I shall 
not be forgotten at the interview. 



424 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

I have just received yours of the third of last month. I must 
still complain of its shortness, though I dare not quarrel with it, 
as it assures me of your welfare. But get rid, I pray you, of 
that very bad practice, of supposing things unimportant at Mar- 
tinique, because you think them so at Paris. Give me your 
intelligence, and allow me to be the judge of its consequence. 

You are partial to your friend, when you write in such high 
terms of his treatment of Yambu. We think but seldom of 
those things which habit has made common, otherwise we should 
correct many of them ; there needed only to give one's feelings 
room on this theme, and they could prompt no other conduct 
than mine. Your approbation, however, is not lost upon me ; 
the best of our resolutions are bettered, by a consciousness of 
the suffrage of good men in their favor ; and the reward is still 
higher, when that suffrage is from those we love. 



My uncle has sent to me, to help him to entertain some com- 
pany who have just arrived here. He knows not what a train 
of thinking he calls me from — I have a little remembrancer, 
Beauvaris, — a picture which has hung at my bosom for some 
years past, that speaks such things ! — 

The servant again ! — Mademoiselle Dorville is below, and I 
must come immediately. Well then — it will be difficult for me 
to be civil to her ; yet the girl deserves politeness. But that 
picture ! — 

********** 



LETTER XXXI. 

Savillon to Beauvaris. 

You say, the letter, to which your last was an answer, was 
written in low spirits : I confess I am not always in high ones ; 
not even now, though I am just returned from a little feast, 
where there was much mirth, and excellent wine. It was a 
dinner given by Dorville, on occasion of his daughter's birth- 
day, to which my uncle and I, among other of his friends, had 
been long invited. The old gentleman displayed all his wealth, 
and all his wit, in entertaining us ; some of us thanked him for 
neither, though every one's complaisance obliged him to eat of 
his dainties, and laugh at his jests. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 425 

It is after such a scene, that one is often in a state the most 
stupid of any. The assumption of a character, in itself humili- 
ating, distresses and wastes us, while the loss of so much time, 
like the bad fortune of a gamester, is doubly felt, when we reflect 
that fools have won from us. Yet it must be so in life, and I 
wish to overcome the spleen of repining at it. 

I was again set next Mademoiselle Dorville, and had the 
honor of accompanying some of the songs she sung to us. A 
vain fellow, in my circumstances, might imagine that the girl 
liked him. I believe there is nothing so serious in her mind, 
and I should be sorry there were. The theft of a woman's 
affections is not so atrocious, as that of her honor ; but I have 
often seen it more terrible than that of her life ; at least, if living 
wretchedness be worse than death : yet is it reckoned a very 
venial breach of confidence, to endeavor to become more than 
agreeable where a man feels it impossible to repay what he may 
receive. Her father, I am apt to believe, has something of what 
is commonly called a plot upon me ; but as to him my con- 
science is easy, because the coffers of my uncle being his 
quarry, it matters not much if he is disappointed. 

Were it not from a point of delicacy, not to run the smallest 
risk of being thought particular, I could sometimes be very well 
entertained with the society of Mademoiselle Dorville. There 
is a sprightliness about her which amuses, though it is not win- 
ning, and I never found it so easy to talk nonsense to any other 
woman. I fancy this is always the case, where there is no 
chance of the heart being interested : it is perfectly so in the 
present instance with me. Oh ! Beauvaris ! I have laid out 
more soul in sitting five minutes with Julia de Roubigne in 
silence, than I should in a year's conversation with this little 
Dorville. 

The conversation of women has perhaps a charm from its 
weakness ; but this must be, like all their other weaknesses 
that please us, what claims an interest in our affections, without 
offending our reason. I know not if there is really a sex in the 
soul : custom and education have established one, in our ideas ; 
but we wish to feel the inferiority of the other sex, as one that 
does not debase, but endear it. 

To their knowledge, in many things, we have set limits, be- 
cause it seems to encroach on the softness of their feelings, 
which we suppose of that retiring kind, that shuns the keenness 
of argument or inquiry. Knowledge or learning has often this 
effect among men : it is even sometimes fatal to taste, if by 
taste, is meant the effect which beauties have on ourselves, 
rather than the power of criticising on that which they ought to 
have on others, 

36* 



426 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

There is a little world of sentiment made for women to move 
in, where they certainly excel our sex, and where our sex ought, 
perhaps, to be excelled by them. This is irresistibly en- 
gaging, where it is natural ; but, of all affectations, that of sen- 
timent is the most disgusting. It is, I believe, more common in 
France than any where else ; and I am not sure, if it does not 
proceed from our women possessing the reality less. The 
daughter of Monsieur Dorville, when she would be great, is 
always sentimental. I was forced to tell her to-day, that I 
hated sentiments, and that they spoiled the complexion. She 
looked in the glass, and began to ask some questions about the 
Italian comedy. 



My uncle, who had staid sometime behind me with Dorville, 
came in. He was very copious on the subject of Mademoiselle. 
I was perfectly of his opinion in every thing, and praised her in 
echo to what he said ; but he had discernment enough to see an 
indifference in this, which I was sorry to find he did not like. I 
know not how far he meant to go, if we had been long together; 
but he found himself somewhat indisposed, and was obliged to 
go to bed. 

I sat down alone, and thought of Julia de Roubigne. 

My uncle is, this morning, really ill. I owe him too much, 
not to be distressed at this. He is uneasy about his own situa- 
tion, though, I believe, without reason ; but men who, like him, 
have enjoyed uninterrupted health, are apt to be apprehensive. 
I have sent for a physician without letting him know;' for it was 
another effect of his good constitution, to hold the faculty in 
contempt. At present, I am sure he will thank me, in his heart, 
for my precaution. 



The doctor has been with him, and talks doubtfully ; that, 
perhaps, is unavoidable in a science, from its nature, so uncer- 
tain ; for this man has really too much knowledge to wish to 
seem wiser. 



I find I must conclude this letter, as the ship, by which I am 
to send it, is within a quarter of an hour of sailing. Would it 
had been a few days later ! a few days might do much in a fate 

like mine. 1 cannot express that sort of doubt and fear, 

which the look of futurity, at this moment, gives me. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 427 

Do not, for Heaven's sake, do not fail to write to me about 
the situation of Roubigne and his family. I know his unwilling- 
ness to write, and decorum prevents (is it vanity to think so 1) 
his daughter ; therefore I addressed my last letter to Madame 
de Roubigne ; but even when I shall receive her answer, it will 
not say enough. You know what my heart requires ; do not 
disappoint it.* 



LETTER XXXII. 

Julia de Roubigne* to Maria de Roncilles. 

You must not expect to hear from me as often as formerly ; 
we have, here, an even tenor of days, that admits not of much 
description. Comedies and romances, you know, always end 
in a marriage, because, after that, there is nothing to be said. 

But I have reason to be angry with you for rinding so little to 
say at Paris ; though, I believe the fault is in myself, or rather 
in your idea of me. You think I am not formed to relish those 
articles of intelligence, which are called news in your great 
town ; the truth is, I have often heard them with very little 
relish ; but I know you have wit enough to make them pleasant 
if you would ; and even if you had not, do but write any thing, 
and I shall read it with interest. 

You flatter me by your praises of the naivete, in the picture I 
drew of our party of pleasure. God knows I have no talent that 
way ; yet the group was fantastic enough, and, though I felt 
quite otherwise than merry next morning, when I wrote to you, 
yet I found a sort of pleasure in describing it. There is a cer- 
tain kind of trifling, in which a mind not much at ease, can 
sometimes indulge itself. One feels an escape, as it were, from 
the heart, and is fain to take up with lighter company. It is 
like the theft of a truant boy, who goes to play for a few minutes 
while his master is asleep, and throws the chiding for his task 
upon futurity. 

We have very different company at present. Madame de 
Sancerre has been here these three days. Her husband was an 

* There are no letters, in this collection, of a later date, Savillon to Beau- 
varis. The person who at first arranged them, seems to intend to account for 
this by the following note on the outside of the preceding one, written in a 
hand of which I see little jottings on several of the letters, "Beauvaris died 
5th April, a few days after the receipt of this," 



428 JULIA DE ROTJBIGNE. 

acquaintance of Monsieur de Montauban in Spain, and, you will 
remember, we used to be of her parties in town ; so she is a 
guest of both sides of the house, though I believe no great 
favorite of either. She is a wit, you know, and says abund- 
ance of good things : and will say any thing, provided it be 
witty. Here, indeed, we give her so little opportunity, that her 
genius is almost famished for want of subject. At Paris, I 
remember her surrounded by men of ietters ; they praised her 
learning, and to us she seemed wonderful, both as a scholar and 
a critic ; but here, when I turn the discourse on books, she 
chooses to talk of nothing but the beau monde. Her descrip- 
tions, however, are diverting enough, and I believe she is not 
the worse pleased with me, that I can only hear them without 
being able to answer ; for I think, if there is a member of our 
society she dislikes, it is that relation of the count, whom I 
mentioned to you in my last, Monsieur de Rouille, who is come 
to spend some weeks here. From the account of his vivacity, 
which I received from his kinsman, I thought Madame de San- 
cerre would have thought it a piece of high good fortune to have 
met him here ; but, I see I mistook the thing ; and that she 
would relish his company better, if he were as stupid as the rest 
of us. I am of a different opinion, and begin to like him much ; 
the better, that I was prepared to be somewhat afraid of him ; 
but I find in him nothing to be feared ; on the contrary, he is 
my very safest barrier against the sometimes too powerful 
brilliancy of the lady. 

Rouille is constitutionally happy ; but his vivacity, though it 
seems to be constant, does not appear to be unfeeling. It is not 
the cheerfulness of an unthinking man, who is ready to laugh on 
all occasions, without leave of his reason ; or, what is worse, of 
his humanity ; some such people I have seen, whose mirth was 
like the pranks of a madman, and, if not of consequence enough 
to excite anger or fear, was entitled to our compassion. Rou- 
ille has the happy talent of hitting that point where sentiment 
mingles with good-humor. His wit, except when forced into 
opposition by the petulance of others, is ever of that gentle kind 
from which we have nothing to dread ; that sports itself in the 
level of ordinary understandings, and pleases, because it makes 
no one displeased with himself. Even the natural gravity of 
Montauban yields to the winning liveliness of Rouille ; and 
though the first seems to feel a little awkwardness in the 
attempt, yet he often comes down from the loftiness of his own 
character, to meet the pleasantry of the others. 

Do not rally me on the savor of matrimony in the observation, 
if I venture to say, that Montauban seems to have resumed 
somewhat of his former dignity. Think not that I suspect the 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 429 

smallest diminution of his affection ; but now, when the ease of 
the husband has restored him to his native character — I know 
not what I would say — believe me, I mean nothing at all — I 
have the greatest reason to be satisfied and happy. 

At present, I believe, he is now and then out of humor with 
this visitant of ours, Madame de Sancerre ; and it may be, 
thrown into somewhat of a severity in his manner, from the 
observation of an opposite one in her. When she utters, as she 
does pretty often, any joke, at which she laughs heartily herself, 
I laugh, sometimes with good-will, but oftener (out of complai- 
sance) without ; Rouille laughs, and is ready with his jest in 
return ; but Montauban looks graver than ever. Indeed, there 
is no resource for one who cannot laugh at a jest, but look 
grave at it. 

I wish my Maria could have accepted of the invitation he 
communicated by me some time ago. I think I should have 
shown him, in my friend, a liveliness that would not have dis- 
pleased him. Could you still contrive to come, while Rouille 
is here, you must be charmed with another. It would give me 
an opportunity of making up to you, for the many dull letters I 
have obliged you to read ; but you taxed yourself early with my 
correspondence ; it was then, perhaps, tolerable ; it has, of late, 
been a mere collection of egotisms, the egotisms too of a mind 
ill at ease — but I have given up making apologies or acknowl- 
edgments to you ; they are only for common obligations ; mine 
is a debt beyond their quittance. 



LETTER XXXIII. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

I am now three letters in your debt ; yet the account of cor- 
respondence used formerly to be in my favor. The truth is, that 
of facts I have nothing to write, and of sentiments almost as 
little. Of the first, my situation here in the country deprives 
me ; and of the last, that quiet sort of state I have got into is 
little productive. When I was unhappy as the lover of Julia, or 
first happy as her husband, I had theme enough, and to spare. I 
can tell you, that I am happy still : but it is a sort of happiness 
that would not figure in narration. I believe my Julia is every 
thing that a good wife should be ; I hope I am a good husband. 
I am neither young nor old enough for a doating one. 



430 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

You will smile and look back to certain letters and notes of 
mine, written some four or five months ago. I do not know 
why I should be ashamed of them. Were Segarva to marry, 
he would write such letters for a while, and there never was a 
man who could write such letters long. If there were, I am not 
sure if I should wish to be that man. When we cannot be quite 
so happy as others, our pride naturally balances the account : it 
shows us that we are wiser. 

Rouille, who has been here for a week or two, is of a differ- 
ent opinion : he holds the happiest man to be ever the wisest. 
You know Rouille's disposition, which was always too much in 
the sun for us : but the goodness of his heart, and the purity of 
his honor, are above the rest of his character. With this pre- 
possession in his favor, I hear him laugh at me without resent- 
ment ; and by and bye he steals upon me, till I forget myself 
and laugh with him. I am sometimes gay ; but I feel a sort of 
trouble in gayety. It is exactly the reverse with Rouille : he can 
be serious when he means to be so ; but, if we mean nothing, 
he is gay, and I am serious. 

My wife is neither the one nor t'other ; there is something 
about her too gentle for either ; but, I think, her pensive soft- 
ness deserts more readily to Rouille's side than 1,o mine, though 
one should imagine his manner the most distant^from her's of 
the two. Rouille jokes me on this ; he calls her the middle 
stage between us ; but says, it is up-hill towards my side. " A 
solitary castle, and a still evening," said he, " would make a 
Julia of me ; but to be Montauban, I must have a fog and a 
prison." 

Perhaps, if we consider matters impartially, these men have 
the advantage of us, the little cordialities of life are more fre- 
quently in use than its greater or more important duties. Some- 
body, I think, has compared them to small pieces of coin, which, 
though of less value than the large, are more current amongst 
them ; but the parallel fails in one respect ; a thousand of those 
livres do not constitute a louis; and I have known many charac- 
ters possessed of all that the first could give, whose minds were 
incapable of the last. In this number, however, I mean not to 
include Rouille. 

We have another guest, who illustrates my meaning better, 
the widow of Sancerre, whom you introduced to my acquaint- 
ance a long time ago, in Spain. She was then nothing ; for 
Sancerre considered all women nothing, and took care that, 
during his life, she should be no exception to the rule. He 
died ; she regained, her freedom ; and she uses it as one to 
whom it had been long denied. She is just fool enough to be 
a wit, and carries on a perpetual crusade against sense and 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 431 

seriousness. I bear with her very impatiently ; she plagues me, 
I believe, the more. My wife smiles, Rouille laughs at me, I 
am unable to laugh, and ashamed to be angry ; so I remain 
silent and stupid. 

Sometimes I cease to think of her, and blame myself. Why 
should I allow this spleen of sense to disqualify me for society ? 
— Once or twice I almost uttered things against my present sit- 
uation — Julia loves me ; I know she does : she has that tender- 
ness and gratitude, which will secure her affection to a husband 
who loves her as I do; but she must often feel the difference of 
disposition between us. Had such a man as Rouille been her 
husband — not Rouille neither, though she seems often delighted 
with his good-humor, when I cannot be pleased with it. — We 
are neither of us such a man as the writer of a romance would 
have made a husband for Julia. — There is, indeed, a pliability 
in the minds of women in this article, which frequently gains 
over opinion to the side of duty. Duty is a cold word. No 
matter, we will canvass it no further. I know the purity of her 
bosom, and, I think, I am not unworthy of its affection. 

Her father I see much seldomer than I could wish ; but he is 
greatly altered of late. Since the time of his wife's death, I 
have observed him droop apace ; but Julia says, that the dis- 
tress of their circumstances kept up in him a sort of false spirit, 
which, when they were disembarrassed, left him to sink under 
reflection. His faculties, I can easily perceive, are not in that 
vigor they w r ere wont to be ; yet his bodily strength does not 
much decline, and he seems more contented with himself, than 
when he was in full possession of his abilities. We wish him to 
live with us ; but he has constantly refused our request, and it 
is a matter of delicacy to press him on that point. We go to 
sec him sometimes : he receives us with satisfaction, not ardor: 
violent emotions of every kind appear to be quenched in him. 
It creates, methinks, a feeling of mingled complacency and 
sadness, to look on the evening of a life, and of a character, 
like Roubigne's. 

Shall I not see you here some time this autumn ? You gave 
a sort of promise, and I need you more than ever. I want the 
society of some one, in whose company I can be pleased with- 
out the tax of thinking that I am silly for being so. 



432 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER XXXIV. 

Julia to Maria. 

I have just now received a piece of intelligence, which I 
must beg my Maria instantly to satisfy me about. Le Blanc, 
my father's servant, was here a few hours ago, and, among 
other news, informed Lisette, that a nephew of his, who had just 
come with his master from Paris, met Savillon there, whom he 
perfectly remembered, from having seen him in his visits to his 
uncle at Belville. The lad had no time for inquiry, as his 
master's carriage was just setting off, when he observed a 
chaise drive up to the door of the hotel, with a gentleman in it, 
whom he knew to be Savillon, accompanied by a valet de 
chambre, and two black servants on horseback. 

Think, Maria, what I feel at this intelligence ! Yet why 

should it alarm me 1 — Alas ! you know this poor, weak, throb- 
bing heart of mine ! I cannot, if I would, hide it from you. — 
Find him out, for Heaven's sake, Maria ; tell me — yet what 
now is Savillon to your Julia ? — No matter — do any thing your 
prudence may suggest ; only satisfy me about the fate of this 
once dear — Again ! I dare not trust myself on the subject — 
Monsieur de Montauban ! — Farewell ! 

Delay not a moment to answer this. — 

Yet do not write, till you have learned something satisfactory. 

At any rate, write me speedily. 

I have forgotten the name of the hotel where the lad met him; 
it was situated in the Rue St Anne. 



LETTER XXXV. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

My wife (that word must often come across the narration of 
a married man) has been a good deal indisposed of late. You 
Avill not joke me on this intelligence, as such of my neighbors 
whom I have seen have done. It is not, however, what they 
say, or you may think ; her spirits droop more than her body ; 
she is thoughtful and melancholy when she thinks she is not 
observed ; and, what pleases me worse, affects to appear other- 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 433 

wise when she is. I like not this sadness, which is conscious 
of itself. Yet, perhaps, I have seen her thus before our mar- 
riage, and have rather admired this turn of mind than disap- 
proved of it ; but now I would not have her pensive — nor very 
gay neither — I would have nothing about her, methinks, to stir a 
question in me whence it arose. She should be contented 
with the affection she knows I bear for her. I do not expect 
her to be romantically happy, and she has no cause for uneasi- 
ness — I am not uneasy neither — yet I wish her to conquer this 
melancholy. 

I was last night abroad at supper. Julia was abed before 
my return. I found her lute lying on the table, and a music 
book open by it. I could perceive the marks of tears shed on 
the paper, and the air was such as might encourage their falling. 
Sleep, however, had overcome her sadness, and she did not 
awake when I opened the curtains to look on her. When I had 
stood some moments, I heard her sigh strongly through her 
sleep, and presently she muttered some words, I know not of 
what import. I had sometimes heard her do so before, without 
regarding it much ; but there was something that roused my at- 
tention now. I listened ; she sighed again, and again spoke a 
few broken words ; at last, I heard her plainly pronounce the 
name SaviUon, two or three times over, and each time it was 
accompanied with sighs so deep, that her heart seemed bursting 
as it heaved them. I confess the thing struck me ; and after 
musing on it some time, I resolved to try a little experiment 
this day at dinner, to discover whether chance had made her 
pronounce this name, or if some previous cause had impressed 
it on her imagination. I knew a man of that name at Paris, 
when I first went thither, who had an office under the intendant 
of the marine. I introduced some conversation on the subject of 
the fleet, and said, in an indifferent manner, that I had heard so 
and so from my old acquaintance Savillon. She spilt some soup 
she was helping me to at the instant : and stealing a glance at 
her, I saw her cheeks flushed into crimson. 

I have been ever since going the round of conjecture on this 
incident. I think I can recollect once, and but once, her father 
speak of a person called Savillon, residing abroad, from whom 
he had received a letter ; but I never heard Julia mention him 
at all. I know not why I should have forborne asking her the 
reason of her being so affected at the sound ; yet at the mo- 
ment I perceived it, the question stuck in my throat, 1 felt 
something like guilt hang over this incident altogether — it is 
none of mine then — nor of Julia's neither, I trust — and yet, 
Segarva it has touched me nearer — much nearer than I should 
own to any one but you. 

37 



434 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

Nine at night 
Upon looking over what I had written in the afternoon, I had 
almost resolved to burn this letter, and write another ; but it 
strikes me as insincerity to a friend like Segarva, not to trust 
him with the very thought of the moment, weak as it may be. 

I begin now to be ashamed of the effect that trifle I mentioned 
above had upon me. Julia is better, and has been singing to 
me the old Spanish ballad, which you sent us lately. I am 
delighted with those ancient national songs, because there is a 
simplicity and an expression in them which I can understand. 
Adepts in music are pleased with more intricate compositions ; 
and they talk more of the pleasure than they feel ; and others 
talk after them, without feeling at all. 



LETTER XXXVI. 

Savillon to Herbert. 

I am here in Paris, and fulfil the promise which your friend- 
ship required of me, to write to you immediately on my arrival. 

Alas ! my reception is not such as I looked for. He, whom 
alone my arrival should have interested, my ever faithful Beau- 
varis ! — he meets me not — we shall never meet — he died, while 
I was imagining fond things of our meeting ! 

Gracious God ! what have I done, that I should be always 
thus an outcast from society ? When France was dear to me 
as life itself, my destiny tore me from her coast ; now, when I 
anticipated the pleasures of my return, is this the welcome she 
affords me ? 

Forlorn and friendless as my early days were, I complained 
not while Beauvaris was mine ; he was wholly mine, for his 
heart was not made for the world. Naturally reserved, he 
shrunk early from its notice ; and, when he had lived to judge 
of its sentiments, he wished not to be in the list of its friends. 

His extreme modesty, indeed, was an evil in his fate, because 
it deprived him of that protection and assistance which his situ- 
ation required. Those who might have been patrons of his 
merit, had not time to search for talents which his bashfulness 
observed. His virtues even suffered imputation from it. Shy, 
not only of intimacy, but even of opinion and sentiment, persons, 
whose situation seemed to entitle them to his confidence, com- 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 435 

plained of his coldness and indifference, and he was accused 
of want of feeling from what, in truth, was an excess of sen- 
sibility. This jewel, undiscovered by others, was mine. From 
infancy, each was accustomed to consider his friend but a better 
part of himself ; and when the heart of either was full, talking 
to the other was but unloading it in soliloquy. 

Forgive me, my dear Herbert, for thus dwelling on the sub- 
ject. The only sad comfort I have now left me, is to think of 
his worth. It is a privilege I would not waste on common 
minds, to hear me on this theme ; yours can understand it. 

Why was I absent from Paris ? Too much did the latter 
days of Beauvaris require me ! They saw him struggling with 
poverty as well as sickness ; yet the last letter he wrote to me 
confessed neither ; and some little presents, the produce of 
Martinique, which I sent him, he would not convert into mo- 
ney, because they came from me. 

I am now sitting in the room in which he died ! — On that 
paltry bed lay the head of Beauvaris — On this desk whereon I 
write, he wrote ! — Pardon me a while — I am unable to go on. 



It is from the indulgence of sorrow that we first know a re- 
spite from affliction. I have given a loose to my grief, and 
I feel the relief which my tears have afforded me. I am now 
returned to my hotel, and am able to recollect myself. 

I have not yet seen any acquaintance of Monsieur de Rou- 
bigne ; this blow, indeed, did not allow me leisure or spirits for 
inquiry ; I feel as if I were in a foreign land, and am almost 
afraid of the noise and bustle I hear in the streets. I have sent, 
however, offering a visit to a young lady, of whom I shall be 
able to get intelligence of Roubigne's family ; but my messen- 
ger is not yet returned. 



He has found her, and she has appointed me to come to her 
to-morrow morning. You cannot imagine what a flutter the 
expectation of this visit has thrown me into ; I am not apt to 
stand in awe of presages, but I could be very weak that way at 
this moment. My man, who possesses a happy vivacity, 
brought me in, after dinner, a bottle of Burgundy, which, he 
said, the maitre d'hotel assured him was excellent. I have 
drank three-fourths of it by way of medicine ; it has made my 
head somewhat dizzy, but my heart is as heavy as before. 

What a letter of egotism have I written ! but you have taught 



436 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

me to give vent to my feelings, by the acquaintance you have 
allowed me with yours. To speak one's distresses to the un- 
feeling is terrible ; even to ask the alms of pity is humiliating ; 
but to pour our griefs into the bosom of a friend, is but commit- 
ting to him a pledge above the trust of ordinary men. 

Do not, I beseech you, forget your design of travelling into 
France this season ! — yet why should I ask this 1 I know not 
where fortune may lead me ! it cannot, however, place me in a 
situation where the friendship of Herbert shall be forgotten. 

P. S. I direct this for you at London, as I think you must 
be there by this time. Your answer will find me here ; let it 
be speedy. 



LETTER XXXVII. 

Savillon to Herbert. 

Bear with me, Herbert, bear with me ! The first use I 
make of that correspondence which you desired, is to pour out 
my miseries before you ! but you can hear them. You have 
known what it is to love, and to despair as I do. 

When I told you my Beauvaris was no more, I thought I had 
exhausted the sum of distress which this visit to Paris was to 

give me. I knew not then what fate had prepared for me 

that Julia, on whom my doating heart had rested all its hopes 
of happiness — that Julia is the wife of another. 

All but this I could have borne ; the loss of fortune, the 
decay of health, the coldness of friends, might have admitted 
of hope ; here only was despair to be found, and here I have 
found it ! 

Oh ! Herbert ! she was so interwoven with my thoughts of 
futurity, that life now fades into a blank, and is not worth the 
keeping ; but I have a use for it ; I will see her yet at least — 
Wherefore should I wish to see her 1 — Yet, methinks, it is now 
the only object that can prompt a wish in me. 

When I visited that lady, that Maria de Roncilles, whom I 
knew to be the dearest of her friends, she seemed to receive 
me with confusion ; her tongue could scarce articulate the 
words that told me of Julia's marriage. She mentioned some- 
thing too of having heard of mine. I am tortured every way 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 437 

with conjecture — my brain scarce holds its recollection — Julia 
de Roubigne is married to another ! 

I know not what I said to this friend of her's at first ; I re- 
member only that, when I had recovered a little, I begged her 
to convey a letter from me to Julia ; she seemed to hesitate in 
her consent ; but she did at last consent. Twice have I writ- 
ten, and twice have I burnt what I had written — I have no friend 
to guide, to direct — not even to weep to ! 



At last I have finished that letter ; it contains the last request 
which the miserable Savillon has to make. This one interview 
past, and my days have nothing to mark them with anxiety or 
hope. 



I am now more calmly wretched ; the writing of that letter 
has relieved, for a while, my swelling heart. I went with it 
myself to Mademoiselle de Roncilles's ; she was abroad, so I 
left it without seeing her. You can judge of my feelings ; I 
wondered at the indifference of the faces I met with in my way ; 
they had no cares to cloud them, none at least like Savillon's. — 
Why of all those thousands am I the most wretched 1 

I am returned to my hotel. I hear the voices of my servants 
below ; they are telling, I suppose, the adventures of their voy- 
age. I can distinguish the voice of my man, and his audience 
are merry around him. Why should he not jest 1 he knows 
not what his master suffers. 

Something like a stupid sleepiness oppresses me ; last night 
I could not sleep. Where are now those luxurious slumbers, 
those wandering dreams of future happiness ? Never shall I 
know them again! Good night, my Herbert ! — It is something 
still to sleep, and to forget them. 

37* 



438 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE 

LETTER XXXVIIL 

Julia to Maria. 

What do you tell me ? Savillon in Paris ! unmarried, un- 
engaged, raving of Julia 1 Hide me from myself, Maria, hide 
me from myself — Am I not the wife of Montauban ? — 

Yes, and I know that character which, as the wife of Mont- 
auban, I have to support ; her husband's honor and her own 
are in the breast of Julia. My heart swells while I think on 
the station in which I am placed. Relentless honor ! thou 
triest me to the uttermost ; thou enjoinest me to think no more 
of such a being as Savillon. 

But can I think of him no more 1 — Cruel remembrances ! — 
Thou, too, my friend, betrayest me ; you dare not trust me with 
the whole scene ; but you tell me enough. I see him, I see 
him now ! He came, unconscious of what fortune had made 
of me ; he came, elate with the hopes of sharing with his Julia 
that wealth which propitious Heaven had bestowed on him. — 
She is married to another ! — I see him start back in amazement 
and despair ; his eyes wild and haggard, his voice lost in the 
throb of astonishment ! He thinks on the shadows which his 
fond hopes had reared — the dreams of happiness 1 — Say not 
that he wept at the thought. Had those tears fallen upon 
Julia's grave, Memory ! thou could st not thus have stung me. 
But, perhaps, gentle as his nature is, he was not weak enough 
to be overcome by the thought. Could he but think of me with 
indifference— Tell him, Maria, what a wretch I am ; a wife, 
without a wife's affection, to whom life has lost its relish, and 
virtue its reward. Let him hate me, I deserve his scorn — yet, 
methinks, I may claim his pity. 

The daughter of Roubigne, the wife of Montauban ! I will 
not bear to be pitied. No ; I will stifle the grief that would 
betray me, and be miserable without a witness. This heart 
shall break, this proud heart, without suffering a sigh to relieve it. 



Alas ! my friend, it will not be. — That picture, Maria, that 
picture ! — Why did I not banish it from my sight ! too amiable 
Savillon ! Look there, look there ! in that eye there is no 
scorn, no reproach to the unhappy Julia : mildness and mel- 
ancholy ! — We were born to be miserable ! — Think'st thou, 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 439 

Maria, that at this moment — it is possible — he is gazing thus 
on the resemblance of one, whose ill-fated rashness has undone 
herself and him ! — Will he thus weep over it as I do 1 Will he 
pardon my offences, and thus press it ? — I dare not ; this bosom 
is the property of Montauban. Tears are all I have to bestow. 
Is there guilt in those tears 1 Heaven knows I cannot help 
weeping. 



I was interrupted by the voice of my husband giving some 
orders to his servant at the door of my apartment. He entered 
with a look of gavety ; but I fear, by the change of his counte- 
nance, that he observed my tears I clapped on my hat to hide 
them, and told him as well as I could, that I was going to walk. 
He suffered me to leave him without any further question. I 
strolled I knew not whither, till I found myself by the side of a 
little brook, about a quarter of a mile's distance from the house. 
The stillness of noon, broken only by the gentle murmurings of 
the water, and the quiet hum of the bees, that hung on the wild 
flowers around it ; these gave me back myself, and allowed me 
the languor of thought ; my tears fell without control, and almost 
without distress. I would have looked again on the picture of 
Savillon, for I could then have trusted myself with the sight of 
it ; but I had left it behind in my chamber. The thoughts of 
its being seen by my husband, gave wings to my return. I 
hope he missed it ; for I found it lying, as I had left it, on my 
dressing table, in the midst of some letters of compliment, which 
had been thrown carelessly there the day before ! and when I 
went down stairs, I discovered nothing in his behaviour that 
should have followed such a discovery. On the contrary, 1 
think he seemed more pleased than usual, and was particularly 
attentive to me. I felt his kindness a reproach, and my endea- 
vors to return it sat awkwardly upon me. There was a treach- 
ery, methought in my attempts to please him ; and, I fear, the 
greater ease I meant to assume in making those attempts, gave 
them only more the appearance of constraint. 

What a situation is mine ! to wear the appearance of serenity, 
while my heart is wretched ; and the dissimulation of guilt, 
though my soul is unconscious of a crime ! — There is something 
predictive in my mind, that tells me I shall not long be thus ; 
but I am sick of conjecture, as I am bereft of hope, and only 
satisfy myself with concluding, that, in the most fateful lives, 
there is still a certain point where the maze of destiny can be- 
wilder no more ! 



440 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER XXXIX. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

Segarva ! — but it must be told — I blush even telling it to 
thee — have I lived to this 1 that thou shouldst hear the name 
of Montauban coupled with dishonor ! 

I came into my wife's room yesterday morning, somewhat 
unexpectedly. I observed she had been weeping, though she 
put on her hat to conceal it, and spoke in a tone of voice affect- 
edly indifferent. Presently she went out on pretence of walk- 
ing ; I staid behind, not without surprise at her tears, though, I 
think, without suspicion ; when turning over (in the careless 
way one does in musing) some loose papers on her dressing- 
table, I found the picture of a young man in miniature, the glass 
of which was still wet with the tears she had shed on it. I have 
but a confused remembrance of my feelings at the time ; there 
was a bewildered pause of thought, as if I had waked in another 
world. My faithful Lonquillez happened to enter the room at 
that moment : Look there, said I, holding out the picture, with- 
out knowing what I did ; he held it in his hand, and turning 
it, read on the back, Savillon. I started at that sound, and 
snatched the picture from him ; I believe he spoke somewhat, 
expressing his surprise at my emotion ; I know not what it 
was, nor what my answer. He was retiring from the chamber 
— I called him back. — " I think," said I, " thou lovest thy 
master, and would serve him if thou couldst?" — " With my 
life !" answered Lonquillez. The warmth of his manner 
touched me ; I think I laid my hand on my sword. — " Sa- 
villon !" I repeated the name. — " I have heard of him," said 
Lonquillez. — " Heard of him !" — " I heard Le Blanc talk 
of him a few days ago." — "And what did he say of him 7 ?" — 
" He said he had heard of this gentleman's arrival from the 
West Indies, from his own nephew, who had just come from 
Paris ; that he remembered him formerly, when he lived with 
his master at Belville, the sweetest young gentleman, and the 
handsomest in the province. My situation struck me at that 
instant. I was unable to inquire further. After some little 
time, Lonquillez left the room ; I knew not that he was gone, 
till I heard him going down stairs. I called him back a second 
time ; he came ; I could not speak. — "My dear master !" said 
Lonquillez ; — it was the accent of a friend, and it overcame me. 

" Lonquillez," said I, "your master is most unhappy I— Canst 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 441 

thou think my wife is false to me ?" — " Heaven forbid !" said 
he, and started back in amazement. — " It may be I wrong her ; 
but to dream of Savillon, to keep his picture, to weep over it." 
— " What shall I do, Sir ?" said Lonquillez. — " You see I am 
calm," I returned, " and will do nothing rashly ; — try to learn 
from Le Blanc every thing he knows about this Savillon. Li- 
sette too is silly, and talks much. I know your faith, and will 
trust your capacity ; get me what intelligence you can, but be- 
ware of showing the most distant suspicion." — We heard my 
wife below : — I threw down the picture where I had found it, 
and hastened to meet her. As I approached her, my heart 
throbbed so violently that I durst not venture the meeting. My 
dressing-room door stood ajar ; I slunk in there, I believe, un- 
perceived, and heard her pass on to her chamber. I would 
have called Lonquillez to have spoken to him again ; but I 
durst not then, and have not found an opportunity since. 

I saw my wife soon after ; I counterfeited as well as I could, 
and, I think, she was the most embarrassed of the two ; she at- 
tempted once or twice to bring in some apology for her former 
appearance ; complained of having been ill in the morning, that 
her head had ached, and her eyes been hot and uneasy. 



She came herself to call me to dinner. We dined alone, 
and I marked her closely ; I saw (by Heaven I did !) a fawn- 
ing solicitude to please me, an attempt at the good-humor of 
innocence, to cover the embarrassment of guilt. I should have 
observed it, I am sure I should, even without a key ; as it was, 
I could read her soul to the bottom — Julia de Roubigne ! the 
wife of Montauban ! — Is it not so 1 



I have had time to think. You will recollect the circum- 
stances of our marriage— her long unwillingness, her almost 
unconquerable reluctance — Why did I marry her ? 

Let me remember— -I durst not trust the honest decision of 
my friend, but stole into this engagement without his knowl- 
edge ; I purchased her consent — I bribed, I bought her ; bought 
her, the leavings of another ! — I will trace this line of infamy no 
further ; there is madness in it. 

Segarva, I am afraid to hear from you ; yet write to me, 
write to me freely. If you hold me justly punished — yet spare 
me, when you think on the severity of my punishment. 



442 JULIA DE ROUBIGNEv 

LETTER XL. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

Lonquillez has not slept on his post, and chance has as- 
sisted his vigilance. Le Blanc came hither the morning after 
our conversation. Lonquillez managed his inquiry with equal 
acuteness and caution ; the other told every thing as the story 
of an old man — he smiled and told it. He knew not that he 
was delivering the testimony of a witness — that the fate of his 
former mistress hung on it ! 

This Savillon lived at Belville from his earliest youth, the 
companion of Julia, though a dependant on her father. When 
they were forced to remove thence, he accompanied their re- 
treat, the only companion of Roubigne whom adversity had left 
him to comfort it — but he had his reward ; the company of the 
daughter often supplied the place of her father's. He was her 
master in literature, her fellow-scholar in music and painting, 
and they frequently planned walks in concert, which they after- 
wards trod together. Le Blanc has seen them there listening to 
the song of the nightingale. 

I am to draw the conclusion. — All this might be innocent, 
the effects of early intimacy and friendship ; and on this suppo- 
sition might rest the quiet of an indifferent husband. But why 
was this intimacy, this friendship, so industriously concealed 
from me ? The name of Savillon never mentioned except in 
guilty dreams ? while his picture was kept in her chamber for 
the adultery of the imagination ! — Do I triumph while I push 
this evidence ? — Segarva ! whither will it lead me ? 



The truth rises upon me, and every succeeding circumstance 
points to one conclusion. Lisette was to-day at a junketing 
party, which Lonquillez contrived for the entertainment of his 
friend Le Blanc. Mention was again made of old stories and 
Savillon was a person of the drama. The wench is naturally 
talkative, and she was then in spirits from company and good 
cheer. Le Blanc and she recollected interviews of their young 
mistress and this handsome eleve of her father. They were, it 
seems, nursed by the same woman, that old Lasune, for whom 
Julia procured a little dwelling, and a pension of four hundred 
livres, from her unsuspecting husband. " She loved them," 



JULIA DE ROTJBIGNE. 443 

said Le Blanc, " like her own children, and they were like 
brother and sister to each other." — " Brother and sister, in- 
deed !" said Lisette. She was more sagacious, and had ob- 
served things better. — " I know what I know," said she ; " but 
to be sure those things are all over now ; and I am persuaded 
my mistress loves no man so well as her own husband. What 
signifies what happened so long ago, especially while Monsieur 
de Montauban knows nothing about the matter." 

These were her words : Louquillez repeated them thrice to 
me. Were I a fool, a driveller, I might be satisfied to doubt 
and be uneasy"? It is Montauban's to see his disgrace, and see- 
ing, to revenge it. 



Lonquillez has been with me : his diligence is indefatigable ; 
but he feels for the honor of his master, and, being a Spaniard, 
is entitled to share it. 

He went with Le Blanc to see Lasune, whom that old man, 
it seems, never fails to visit when he is here. Lonquillez told 
her, that Le Blanc had news for her about her foster-son. "Of 
my dear Savillon !" cried she, " Yes," said Le Blanc ; " You 
will have heard, that he arrived from abroad some weeks ago ; 
and I am told, that he is worth a power of money, which his 
uncle left him in the West Indies." " Bless him ! Heaven 
bless him !" cried Lasune. " Then I may see him once more 
before I die. You never saw him," turning to Lonquillez, " but 
Le Blanc remembers him well : the handsomest, sweetest, best- 
conditioned — your mistress and he have often sat on that bench 
there — Lord pity my forgetfulness — it was far from this place ; 
but it was just such a bench — and they would prefer poor 
Lasune's little treat to all the fine things at my master's — and 
how he would look on my sweet child ! Well, well, destiny 
rules every thing ; but there was a time, when I thought I should 
have called her by another name than Montauban." Lonquillez 
was too much struck with her words to appear unaffected by 
them ; she observed his surprise. " You think no harm, I 
hope," said she. He assured her he did not. " Nay, I need 
not care, for that part, who hears me, yet some folks might 
think it odd ; but we are all friends here, as we may say, and 
neither of you, I know, are talebearers, otherwise I should not 
prattle as I do ; especially, as the last time I saw my lady, when 
I asked after her foster-brother, she told me I must not speak 
of him now, nor talk of the meetings they used to have at my 
house." 

Such were her words ; the memory of Lonquillez is faithful, 



444 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

and he was interested to remember. I drew my breath short, 
and muttered vengeance ; the good fellow saw my warmth, and 
tried to moderate it. " It is a matter, Sir," said he, " of such 
importance, that if I may presume to advise, nothing should be 
believed rashly. If my mistress loves Savillon, if he still 
answers her fondness, they will surely write to each other. I 
commonly take charge of the letters for the post ; if you can 
find any proof that way, it cannot lie nor deceive you." 

I have agreed to his proposal. How am I fallen, Segarva, 
when such artifices are easy to me ! But I will not pause on 
trivial objections — the fate of Montauban is set upon this cast, 
and the lesser moralities must speak unheeded. 



LETTER XLI. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

It is something to be satisfied of the worst. I have now such 
proof, Segarva ! — Inquiry is at an end, and vengeance is the 
only business I have left. Before you answer this — the infamy 
of your friend cannot be erased, but it shall be washed in blood. 

Lonquillez had just brought me a letter from my wife to a 
Mademoiselle de Roncilles, a bosom friend of her's, at Paris. 
He opened it, by a very simple operation, without hurting its 
appearance. It consisted only of a few hurried lines, desiring 
her to deliver an enclosed letter to Savillon, and to take charge 
of his answer. That letter now lies before me. Read it, Se- 
garva — thou wilt wish to stab her while thou read'st it — but 
Montauban has a dagger too. 

" I know not, Sir, how to answer the letter my friend Made- 
moiselle de Roncilles has just sent me from you. The intimacy 
of our former days I still recall, as one of the happiest periods of 
my life. The friendship of Julia you are certainly still entitled 
to, and might claim, without the suspicion of impropriety, though 
fate has now thrown her into the arms of another. There would 
then be no occasion for this secret interview, which, I confess, I 
cannot help dreading ; but, as you urge the impossibility of your 
visiting Monsieur de Montauban, without betraying emotions, 
which, you say, would be dangerous to the peace of us all, con- 
jured as I am by those motives of compassion, which my heart 
is, perhaps, but too susceptible of for my own peace, I have at 
last, not without a feeling like remorse, resolved to meet you on 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 445 

Monday next, at the house of our old nurse Lasune, whom I 
shall prepare for the purpose, and on whose fidelity I can perfectly 
rely. I hope you will give me credit for that remembrance of 
Savillon, which your letter, rather unjustly, denies me, when 
you find me agreeing to this measure of imprudence, of danger, 
it may be of guilt, to mitigate the distress which I have been 
unfortunate enough to give him." 



I feel at this moment a sort of determined coolness, which 
the bending up of my mind to the revenge her crimes deserve, 
has conferred upon me ; I have therefore underlined* some pas- 
sages in this damned scroll, that my friend may see the weight 
of that proof on which I proceed. Mark the air of prudery that 
runs through it, the trick of voluptuous vice to give pleasure to 
the zest of nicety and reluctance ; " It may be of guilt." Mark 
with what coolness she invites him to participate it ! Is this the 
handwriting of Julia ? I am awake, and see it. Julia ! my 
wife ! — damnation ! 



I have been visiting this Lasune, whose house is destined for 
the scene of my wife's interview with her gallant. I feel the 
meanness of an inquisition, that degrades me into the wretched 
spy on an abandoned woman. I blushed and hesitated while I 
talked to this old doating minister of their pleasures. But the 
moment comes when I shall resume myself, when I shall 
burst upon them in the terrors of punishment. 

Whether they have really imposed on the simplicity of this 
creature, I know not ; but her answers to some distant ques- 
tions of mine, looked not like those of an accomplice of their 
guilt. Or, rather, it is I who am deceived ; the cunning of 
intrigue is the property of the meanest among the sex. It 
matters not : I have proof without her. 

She conducted me into an inner room fitted up with a degree 
of nicety. On one side stood a bed, with curtains and a bed- 
cover of clean cotton. That bed, Segarva! — but this heart 
shall down ; I will be calm — at the time, while I looked on it, I 
could not ; the old woman observed my emotion, and asked if I 
was ill ; I recovered myself, however, and she suspected 
nothing ; I think she did not — It looked as if the beldame had 
trimmed it for their use — damn her ! damn her ! killing is poor 
—Canst thou not invent me some luxurious vengeance 1 

* The passages here alluded to are printed in Italics. 
38 



446 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

Lonquillez has re-sealed, and sent off her letter to Savillon ; 
he will take care to bring me the answer; but I know the 
answer — " On Monday next " — why should I start as I think 

on it ? Their fate is fixed ! mine perhaps — -but I will think 

no more. — Farewell. 



Rouille is just arrived here ; I could have wished him absent 
now. He cannot participate my wrongs ; they are sacred to 
more determined souls. Methinks, at this time, I hate his 
smiles ; they suit not the purposes of Montauban. 



LETTER XLII. 

Julia to Maria. 

I hope, from the conveyance which Lisette has procured 
for this letter, it may reach you nearly as soon as that in which 
I inclosed one for Savillon. If it comes in time, let it prevent 
your delivering that letter. I have been considering of this in- 
terview again, and I feel a sort of crime in it towards my hus- 
band, which I dare not venture on. I have trespassed too much 
against sincerity already, in concealing from him my former at- 
tachment to that unfortunate young man. So strongly indeed 
did this idea strike me, that I was preparing to tell it him this 
very day, when he returned from riding, and found me scarce 
recovered from the emotion which a re-perusal of Savillon's 
letter had caused ; but his look had a sternness in it, so oppo- 
site to those feelings which should have opened the bosom of 
your distracted Julia, that I shrunk back into secrecy, terrified 
at the reflection on my own purpose. Why am I the wife of 
this man? but if confidence and tenderness are not mine to 
give, there is a duty which is not mine to refuse. Tell Savillon, 
I cannot see him. 

Not in the way he asks — let him come as the friend of Julia 
de Roubigne. Oh! Maria! what a picture do these words 
recall ; the friend of Julia de Roubigne ! — in those happy days 
when it was not guilt to see, to hear, to think of him — when this 
poor heart was unconscious of its little wanderings, or felt them 
but as harmless dreams, which sweetened the real ills of a life 
too early visited by misfortune ! 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 447 

"When I look back on that life, how fateful has it been ! Is it 
unjust in Providence, to make this so often the lot of hearts, 
little able to struggle with misfortune ? or is it indeed the pos- 
session of such hearts, that creates their misfortunes ? Had I 
not felt as I have done, half the ills I complain of had been no- 
thing, and at this moment I were happy. Yet to have wanted 
such a heart, ill suited as it is to the rude touch of sublunary- 
things — I think I cannot wish so much. There will come a 
time, Maria, (might I forebode without your censure, I should 
say it may not be distant,) when they shall wound it no longer ! 

In truth, I am every way weak at present. My poor father 
adds much to my distresses ; he has appeared for some time 
past, to be verging towards a state, which alone I should think 
w 7 orse than his death. His affection for me is the only sense 
now quite alive about him, nay, it too partakes of imbecility. 
He used to embrace me with ardor ; he now embraces me with 
tears. 

Judge, then, if I am able to meet Savillon at this time, if I 
could allow myself to meet him at all. Think what I am, and 
what he is. The coolness I ought to maintain had been difficult 
at best ; at present, it is impossible. I can scarce think without 
weeping ; and to see that form 



Maria ! when this picture was drawn ! I remember the time 
•well ; my father was at Paris, and Savillon left with my mother 
and me at Belville. The painter (who was accidentally in our 
province) came thither to give me a few lessons of drawing. 
Savillon was already a tolerable designer ; but he joined with 
me in becoming a scholar to this man. When our master was 
with us, he used sometimes to guide my hand ; when he was 
gone, at our practice of his instructions, Savillon commonly 
supplied his place. But Savillon's hand was not like the other's ; 
I felt something from its touch, not the less delightful from car- 
rying a sort of fear along with that delight ; it was like a pulse 
in the soul ! 

Whither am I wandering? What now are those scenes to 
me, and why should I wish to remember them ? Am I not an- 
other's, irrevocably another's ? Savillon knows I am. Let him 
not wish to see me ; we cannot recall the past, and wherefore, 
wherefore should we add to the evils of the present 1 



448 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER XLIII. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

I have missed some link of my intelligence ; for the day is 
past, and no answer from Savillon is arrived. I thank him, 
whatever be the reason, for he has given me time to receive the 
instructions of my friend. 

You caution me well as to the certainty of her guilt. You 
know the proof I have already acquired ; but I will have assur- 
ance beyond the possibility of doubt : I will wait their very 
meeting, before I strike this blow, and my vengeance, like that 
of Heaven, shall be justified by a repetition of her crimes. 

I am less easily convinced, or rather I am less willing to be 
guided by your opinion, as to the secrecy of her punishment. 
You tell me, that there is but one expiation of a wife's infidelity. 
I am resolved, she dies — but that the sacrifice should be secret. 
Were I even to upbraid her with her crime, you say, her tears, 
her protestations, would outplead the conviction of sense itself, 
and I should become the dupe of that infamy I am bound to 
punish. Is there not something like guilt in this secrecy ? 
Should Montauban shrink, like a coward, from the vindication 
of his honor ? Should he not burst upon this strumpet and her 
lover ? — the picture is beastly — the sword of Montauban ! — 
thou art in the right, it would disgrace it. Let me read your 
letter again. 



I am a fool to be so moved — but your letter has given me 
back myself. " The disgrace is only published by an open 
revenge ; it can be buried with the guilty by a secret one." I 
am yours, Segarva, and you shall guide me. 

Chance has been kind to me for the means. Once, in An- 
dalusia, I met with a Venetian empiric, of whom, among other 
chemical curiosities, I bought a poisonous drug, the efficacy of 
which he showed me on some animals to whom he administered 
it. The death it gave was easy, and altered not the appearance 
of the thing it killed. 

I have fetched it from my cabinet, and it stands before me. 
It is contained in a little square phial, marked with some hiero- 
glyphic scrawls, which I do not understand. Methinks, while I 
look on it, I could be weak, very weak, Segarva. But an hour 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 449 

ago, I saw her walk, and speak, and smile — yet these few drops! 
— I will look on it no more — 

I hear the tread of her feet in the apartment above. Did she 
know what passes in my mind ! — the study in which I sit, seems 
the cave of a demon. 



Lonquillez has relieved me again. He has this moment got 
from her maid the following letter, addressed to her friend, 
Mademoiselle de Roncilles. What a sex it is ! but I have heard 
of their alliances of intrigue. It is not that these things are 

uncommon, but that Montauban is a fool — a husband — a 

perdition seize her ! 



" Is my friend too leagued against me ? Alas ! my virtue 
was too feeble before, and needed not the addition of Maria's 
arguments to be overcome. Savillon's figure, you say, aided 
by that languid paleness, which his late illness had given it, was 
irresistible. Why, is not Julia sick ? — yet, wretched as she is, 
irretrievably wretched, she breathes, and walks, and speaks, as 
she did in her most happy days ! 

" You entreat me, for pity's sake, to meet him. — ' He hinted 
his design of soon leaving France to return to Martinique.' 
Why did he ever leave France ? Had he remained contented 
with love and Julia, instead of this stolen, this guilty meeting — 
What do I say 1 — I live but for Montauban ! 

" I will think no longer. This one time I will silence the 
monitor within me — Tell him I will meet him. On Thursday 
next, let him be at Lasune's in the evening : it will be dark 
by six. 

" I dare not read what I have written. Farewell." 



It will be dark by six ! Yet I will keep my word, Segarva ; 
they shall meet, that certainty may precede my vengeance ; but, 
when they part, they part to meet no more ! Lonquillez's 
fidelity I know ; his soul is not that of a servant : he shall pro- 
vide for Savillon. Julia is a victim above him — Julia shall be 
the charge of his master. 

Farewell ! when I write again, it shall not be to threaten, 
36* 



450 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER XLIV. 

Savillon to Herbert. 

After an interval of torture, I have at last received an an- 
swer from Madame de Montauban. Have I lived to write that 
name ! — but it is fit that I be calm. 

Her friend has communicated her resolution of allowing me 
to see her in the house of that good Lasune, whom I have men- 
tioned to you in some of our conversations, as the common 
nurse of both. Were it not madness to look back, and that, at 
present, I need the full possession of myself, the idea of La- 

sune's house would recall such things but they are past, 

never, never to return. 



I have recovered, and can go on calmly. I set out to- 
morrow morning ! Thursday next is the day she has appointed 
for our interview. I have but to despatch this one great busi- 
ness, and then depart from my native country for ever. Every 
tie that bound me to this world is now broken, except that which 
accident gave me in your friendship : before I cross the Atlan- 
tic, I would once more see my Herbert ; when I have indulged 
myself in that last throb of affection, which our friendship de- 
mands at parting, there remains nothing for me to do, but to 
shrink up from all the feelings of life, and look forward, without 
emotion, to its close ! 



I feel, at this moment, as if I were on my deathbed, the 
necessity of a manly composure ; that stifled sigh was the last 
sacrifice of my weakness ! I am now thinking what I have to 
do with the hours that remain : meet me like a man, and help 
me to employ them as I ought. Nothing shall drag me back 
to Europe, and therefore I would shake off every occasion to 
revisit it. 

Though the externals of place and distance are not of much 
importance to me, yet there is something in large towns that I 
wish to avoid. As you mention a design of being in Dorsetshire 
some time soon, may I ask you to make next week that time, 
and meet me at the town of Poole in that county ? Inconsider- 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 451 

able and unknown as I am, there are circumstances that might 
mark me out in Picardy ; and therefore I shall go by Dieppe 
to that part of England, where I know I shall, at this season, 
find an opportunity of getting over the Atlantic. 

I enclose a letter to a merchant in London, relating to some 
business, in which my uncle was concerned, with the house of 
which he is a partner. Be so kind to forward it, and let him 
know, that I desire the answer may be committed to your care. 
As I see, by his correspondence, that he is not altogether a 
man of business, he may perhaps be desirous of meeting with 
you, to ask some questions about the nephew of his old ac- 
quaintance. He will wonder, as others will, at so rich a man 
returning to Martinique. If a reason is necessary, invent some 
one ; it is peculiar to misery like mine to be incapable of being 
told. I shall relapse, if I continue to write. You will, if it is 
possible, meet me at Poole ; if not, write to me thither, where 
I shall find you. Let your letter wait me at the posthouse. 
Farewell. 



LETTER XLV. 

Julia to Maria. 

The hour has almost arrived ! My husband has just left 
me : he came into my room in his riding dress. — " I shall not 
be at home," said he, " till supper time, and Rouille's shooting 
party will detain him till it is late." — The consciousness of my 
purpose pressed upon my tongue while I answered him ; I 
faltered, and could hardly speak. " You speak faintly," said 
Montauban. " You are not ill, I hope," taking my hand. I 
told him, truly, that my head ached a good deal, that it had 
ached all day, that I meant to try if a walk would do it service. 
" Perhaps it may," answered he ; and methouglu he looked 
steadily, and with a sort of question, at me ; or rather my 
own mind interpreted his look in that manner — I believe I 
blushed 



How I tremble as I look on my watch ! Would I could 
recall my promise ! 



452 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

I am somewhat bolder now ; but it is not from having con- 
quered my fear ; something like despair assists me. It wants 
but a few minutes — the hand that points them seems to speak as 
I watch it — I come, Savillon, I come ! 



— How shall I describe our meeting ? I am unfit for describing 
— it cannot be described — I shall be calmer by and bye. 



I know not how I got to the house. From the moment I 
quitted my chamber, I was unconscious of every thing around 
me. The first object that struck my eye was Savillon ! I re- 
collect my nurse placing me in a chair opposite to where he sat 
— she left us — I felt the room turning round with me — I had 
fainted, it seems. When I recovered I found her supporting me 
in her arms, and holding a phial of salts to my nose. Savillon 
had my hands in his, gazing on me with a countenance of dis- 
tress and terror. — My eye met his, and, for some moments, I 
looked on him, as I have done in my dreams, unmindful of our 
situation. — The pressure of his hand awakened me to recollec- 
tion. He looked on me more earnestly still, and breathed out 
the word Julia ! — It was all he could utter ; but it spoke such 
things, Maria ! — You cannot understand its force. Had you 
felt it as I did ! — I could not, indeed I could not, help bursting 
into tears. 

" My dearest children," cried the good Lasune, taking our 
hands, which were still folded together, and squeezing them in 
her's. The action had something of that tender simplicity in it, 
which is not to be resisted. I wept afresh ; but my tears were 
less painful than before. 

She fetched a bottle of wine from a cupboard, and forced me 
to take a glass of it. She offered another to Savillon. He put 
it by with a gentle inclination of his head. " You shall drink it, 
indeed, my dear boy," said she ; " it is a long time since you 
tasted any thing in this house." — He gave a deep sigh and 
drank it. 

She had given us time to recover the power of speech ; but 
I knew less how to begin speaking than before. My eyes now 
found something in Savillon's, which they were ashamed to meet. 
Lasune left us ; I almost wished her to stay. 

Savillon sat down in his former place ; he threw his eyes on 
the ground — " I know not," said he, in a faltering voice, " how 
to thank you for the condescension of this interview — our former 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 453 

friendship — " I trembled for what he seemed about to say. — " I 
have not forgotten it," said I, half interrupting him. I saw him 
start from his former posture, as if awaked by the sound of my 
voice. — " I ask not," continued he, " to be remembered ; I 
am unworthy of your remembrance. — In a short time I shall be 
a voluntary exile from France, and breathe out the remains of 
life amidst a race of strangers, who cannot call forth those affec- 
tions, that would henceforth be shut to the world !" — " Speak 
not thus," I cried, " for pity's sake, speak not thus ! Live and 
be happy, happy as your virtues deserve, as Julia wishes you !" 
" Julia wishes me happy !" — " Oh ! Savillon, you know not the 
heart that you wring thus ! — If it has wronged you, you are re- 
venged enough." — " Revenged ! revenged on Julia! Heaven 
is my witness, I entreated this meeting, that my parting words 
might bless her !" — He fell on his knees before me — " May that 
Power," he cried, " who formed this excellence, reward it ! 
May every blessing this life can bestow, be the portion of Julia ! 
may she be happy, long after the tongue that asks it is silent for 
ever, and the heart that now throbs with the wish, has ceased its 
throbbing!" — Had you seen him, Maria, as he uttered this! 
What should I have done 1 — Weeping, trembling, unconscious, 
as it were, of myself, I spoke I know not what — told him the 
weakness of my soul, and lamented the destiny that made me 
another's. This was too much. When I could recollect my- 
self, I felt that it was too much. I would have retracted what 
I had said : I spoke of the duty I owed to Montauban, of the 
esteem which his virtues deserved. — " I have heard of his 
worth," said Savillon; "I needed no proof to be convinced of 
it; he is the husband of Julia." — There was something in the 
tone of these last words that undid my resolution again. — I told 
him of the false intelligence I had received of his marriage, with- 
out which no argument of prudence, no partial influence, could 
have made me the wife of another. — He put his hand to his 
heart, and threw his eyes wildly to heaven. — I shrunk back at 
that look of despair, which his countenance assumed. — He took 
two or three hurried turns through the room ; then, resuming 
his seat, and lowering his voice, " It is enough," said he, " I am 
fated to be miserable ! but the contagion of my destiny shall 
spread no further. — This night I leave France for ever!" — 
" This night !" I exclaimed. " It must be so," said he with a 
determined calmness ; " but before I go, let me deposit in your 
hands this paper. It is a memorial of that Savillon, who was 
the friend of Julia!" — I opened it : it was a will, bequeathing 
his fortune to me. " This must not be," said I, " this must not 
be. Think not, I conjure you, so despairingly of life ; live to 
enjoy that fortune, which is so seldom the reward of merit like 



454 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

thine. I have no title to its disposal." " You have the best 
one," returned Savillon, still preserving his composure, "I never 
valued wealth, but as it might render me, in the language of the 
world, more worthy of thee. To make it thine was the purpose 
of my wishing to acquire it : to make it thine, is still in my 
power." " I cannot receive this, indeed I cannot. Think of 
the situation in which I stand." I pressed the paper upon him : 
he took it at last, and pausing, as if he thought, for a moment — 
" You are right, there may be an impropriety in your keeping 
it. — Alas ! I have scarce a friend to whom I can intrust any 
thing ; yet I may find one, who will see it faithfully executed." 

He was interrupted by Lasune, who entered somewhat hur- 
riedly, and told me Lisette was come to fetch me, and that she 
had met my husband in her way to the house. " We must part 
then," said he, " for ever ! — let not a thought of the unfortunate 
Savillon disturb the happiness which Heaven allots to Julia : 
she shall hear of him but once again — when that period arrives, 
it will not offend the happy Monlauban, if she drops a tear to 
the memory of one, whose love was expiated by his sufferings." 
— Maria ! was it a breach of virtue, if then I threw myself on 
his neck, if then I wept on his bosom ? His look, his last look ! 
I see it still ! never shall I forget it ! — 

Merciful God ! at whose altar I vowed fidelity to another ! 
impute not to me as a crime the remembrance of Savillon ! 
Thou canst see the purity of that heart, which bleeds at the 
remembrance ! 



Eleven at night 
You know my presentiments of evil ; never did I feel them so 
strong as at present. I trembled to go to bed — the taper that 
burns by. me is dim, and methinks my bed looks like a grave ! 



I was weak enough to call back Lisette. I pretended some 
little business for her ; the poor girl observed that I looked ill, 
and asked if she should sit by me : I had almost said Yes, but 
had courage enough to combat my fears in that instance. She 
bid me Good-night— -there was somewhat solemn in her utter- 
arlce of that Good-night ; I fancy mine was not without its par- 
ticular emphasis, for she looked back wistfully as I spoke. 

I will say my prayers, and forget it ; pray for me too, my 
friend. I have need of your prayers, indeed I have. Good- 
night to my dearest Maria ! 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE\ 455 

If I have recollection enough — Oh ! my Maria ! — I will be 
calm — it was but a dream — will you blush for my weakness ? 
yet hear me — if this should be the last time I shall ever write — 
the memory of my friends mingles with the thought ! Yet me- 
thinks I could, at this time, beyond any other, die contented. 

My fears had given way to sleep ; but their impression was 
on my fancy still. Methought I sat in our family monument at 
Belville, with a single glimmering lamp, that showed the horrors 
of the place, when, on a sudden, a light like that of the morning 
burst on the gloomy vault, and the venerable figures of my fathers, 
such as I had seen them in the pictures of our hall, stood smiling 
benignity upon me ! The attitude of the foremost was that of 
attention, his finger resting upon his lip. I listened — when 
sounds of more than terrestrial melody stole upon my ear, borne, 
as it were, on the distant wind, till they swelled at last to music 
so exquisite, that my ravished sense was stretched too far for 
delusion, and I awoke in the midst of the enhancement ! 

I rose, with the memory of the sounds full upon my mind ; 
the candle I had ordered to stand by me was still unextinguish- 
ed. I sat down to the organ, and, with that small soft stop you 
used to call seraphic, endeavored to imitate their beauty. And 
never before did your Julia play an air so heavenly, or feel such 
ecstasy in the power of sound ! When I had catched the solemn 
chord that last arose in my dream, my fingers dwelt involuntarily 
on the keys, and methought I saw the guardian spirits around 
me, listening with a rapture like mine ! 

But it will not last — the blissful delusion is gone, and I am 
left a weak and unhappy woman still ! — 

I am sick at heart, Maria, and a faintness like that of death — 



The fit is over, and I am able to write again ; and I will write 
while I am able. Methinks, my friend, I am taking farewell of 
you, and I would lengthen out the lingering words as much as I 
can. I am just now recalling the scenes of peaceful happiness 
we have enjoyed together. I imagine I feel the arm of my 
Maria thrown round my neck — her tears fall on my bosotn ! — 
Think of me when I am gone. — This faintness again ! — Fare- 
well ! farewell ! perhaps 



456 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER XLVI. 

Montauban to Segarva. 

It is done, Segarva, it is done ; — the poor unthinking — Sup- 
port me, my friend, support me with the thoughts of that ven- 
geance I owe to my honor — the guilty Julia has but a few hours 
to live. 



I did but listen a moment at the door ; I thought I heard her 
maid upon the stairs — it is not yet the time. Hark ! — it was not 
my wife's bell — the clock struck eleven — never shall she hear 
it strike that hour again ! 

Pardon me, my Segarva ; methinks I speak to you, when I 
scrawl upon this paper. I wish for somebody to speak to ; to 
answer, to comfort, to guide me. 

Had you seen her, when these trembling hands delivered her 
the bowl ! — She had complained of being ill, and begged to lie 
alone ; but her illness seemed of the mind, and when she spoke 
to me, she betrayed the embarrassment of guilt. I gave her the 
drug as a cordial. She took it from me, smiling, and her look 
seemed to lose its confusion. She drank my health ! She was 
dressed in a white silk bedgown, ornamented with pale pink rib- 
ands. Her cheek was gently flushed from their reflection ; 
her blue eyes were turned upwards as she drank, and a dark 
brown ringlet lay on her shoulder. Methinks I see her now — 
how like an angel she looked ! Had she been innocent, 
Segarva ! — You know, you know, it is impossible she can be 
innocent. 



Let me recollect myself — a man, a soldier the friend, of 
Segarva ! — 

At the word innocent I stopped ; I could scarce hold my pen : 
I rose from my seat, I knew not why. Methought some one 
passed behind me in the room. I snatched up my sword in 
one hand, and a candle in the other. It was my own figure in 
a mirror that stood at my back. What a look was mine ! — 
Am I a murderer ? — Justice cannot murder, and the vengeance 
of Montauban is just. 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 457 

Lonquillez has been with me. I durst not question him 
when he entered the apartment — but the deed is not done ; he 
could not find Savillon. After watching for several hours, he 
met a peasant, whom he had seen attending him the day before, 
who informed him, that the strange gentleman had set off, some 
time after it grew dark, in a postchaise, which drove away at 
full speed. Is my revenge then incomplete ? or is one victim 
sufficient to the injured honor of a husband 1 — What a victim is 
that one ! 

I went down stairs to let Lonquillez out by a private passage, 
of which I kept the key. When I was returning to my apart- 
ment, I heard the sound of music proceeding from my wife's 
chamber ; there is a double door on it ; I opened the outer one 
without any noise, and the inner has some panes of glass a-top, 
through which I saw part of the room. Segarva ! she sat at 
the organ, her fingers pressing on the keys, and her look up- 
raised with enthusiastic rapture ! — the solemn sounds still ring 
in my ear ! such as angels might play when the sainted soul 
ascends to heaven ! I am the fool of appearances, when I have 
such proofs — Lisette is at my door. 



It is now that I feel myself a coward ; the horrid draught has 
begun to operate ! — She thinks herself in danger ; a physician 
is sent for, but he lives at a distance ; before he arrives — Oh ! 
Segarva ! 



She begged I would quit the chamber ; she saw my confu- 
sion, and thought it proceeded from distress at her illness. — 
Can guilt be thus mistress of herself? — let me not think that 
way — my brain is too weak for it ? — Lisette again ! 



She is guilty, and I am not a murderer ! I go to- 



39 



458 JtJLIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

LETTER XLVIL 

Monsieur de Rouille" to Mademoiselle de Roncilles. 

Madame, — The writer of this letter has no title to address 
you, except that which common friendship and common calam- 
ity may give him. 

Amidst the fatal scenes, which he has lately witnessed, his 
recollection was lost ; when it returned, it spoke of Madem- 
oiselle de Roncilles, the first, he believes, and dearest friend of 
the most amiable, but most unfortunate, Madame de Montauban. 
The office he now undertakes is terrible ; but it is necessary. 
You must soon be told that your excellent friend is no more ! 
He£& it then from one who knew her excellence, as you did ; 
who tells the horrid circumstances of her death with a bleeding 
heart. Yes, Madame, I must prepare you for horrors ; and, 
while the remembrance tears my own bosom, assume the calm- 
ness that is necessary for yours. 

On the evening of Thursday last, I was told Madame de 
Montauban was a good deal indisposed, and had gone to bed 
before her usual time. At a very short and silent supper, I 
perceived her husband uncommonly agitated, and, as soon as 
decency would allow me, withdrew and left him. Between 
eleven and twelve o'clock (I had not yet gone to bed), one of 
the maidservants came to my room, begging I would instantly 
attend her to the chamber of her mistress, who was so ex- 
tremely ill, that without immediate assistance, they feared the 
very worst consequences. I had formerly a little knowledge 
of physic, and had been in use to practise it in some particular 
campaigns, when abler hands could not be had. I ran down 
stairs with the servant, desiring my own man to seek out a little 
case of lancets and follow us. The girl informed her mistress 
of my being at the door of her apartment. She desired I might 
come in, and, with that smile which sickness could not quench, 
stretched out her hand to me. I found her pulse low and weak, 
and she complained of a strange fluttering at her heart, which 
hardly allowed her to speak. I was afraid to venture on bleed- 
ing, and only gave her a little of some common restoratives that 
were at hand. She found herself somewhat relieved, and sat 
up in her bed supported by her maid. Montauban entered the 
room : his countenance surprised me : it was not that of dis- 
tress alone, it was marked with turbulence and horror. It 
seemed to hurt his wife. At that moment she was scarce able 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 459 

to speak ; but she forced out a few broken words, begging him 
to leave the room, for that her illness affected him too much. 
He withdrew in silence. In a little time, she seemed a good 
deal easier ; but her pulse was still lower than before. She 
ordered her maid to call Monsieur de Montauban again : " I 
dare not trust to future moments," said she, " and I have some- 
thing important to reveal to him." — I offered to leave the room 
as he entered. — " His friend may hear it," she said, in a fal- 
tering voice. She fixed her eye languidly, but steadily, on 
Montauban. He advanced towards her with an eager gaze, 
without uttering a word. When she would have spoken, her 
voice failed her again, and she beckoned, but with a modesty in 
her action, signifying her desire that he should sit down by her. 
She took his hand ; he seemed unconscious of her taking it, and 
continued to bend a look of earnestness upon her. 

When she had recovered the power of utterance, "I feel, 
Sir," said she, " something in this illness productive of the 
worst ; at any rate, I would prepare for it. If I am now to die, 
I hope," lifting up her eyes with a certain meek assurance which 
it is impossible to paint, " I die in peace with Heaven ! there is 
one account which I wish to settle with you. These moments 
of ease, which I enjoy, are allowed me to confess my offence, 
and entreat your forgiveness," 

" Thou wert guilty then V 9 — exclaimed her husband, starting 
from his seat. She paused in astonishment at the impassioned 
gesture he assumed. *' Speak !" cried Montauban, recovering 
himself a little, his voice suffocated with the word. 

" When you have heard me," said Julia, " you will find I am 
less guilty than unfortunate ; yet I am not innocent, for then I 
should not have been the wife of Montauban. 

"When I became yours, my heart owned you not for the lord 

of its affections ; there was an attachment yet look not so 

sternly on me— He, in whose favor that prepossession was 
formed, would not have wronged you if he could. His virtues 
were the objects of my affection ; and had Savillon been the 
thing you fear, Julia had been guiltless even of loving him in 
secret. Till yesterday he never told me his love ; till yes- 
terday he knew not I had ever loved him." — 

" But yesterday," cried Montauban, seeming to check the 
agitation he had shown before, and lowering his voice into a 
tone of calm severity. 

" For the offence of yesterday," said she, " I would obtain 
your pardon, and die in peace. I met Savillon in secret ; I 
saw the anguish of his soul, and pitied it. Was it a crime thus 
to meet him 1 Was it a crime to confess my love, while I re- 
ceived the last farewell of the unfortunate Savillon ? This is 



460 JULIA DE ROTJBIGNE. 

my offence — perhaps the last that Julia can commit or you 
forgive V 

He clasped his hands convulsively together, and throwing up 
to heaven a look of despair, fell senseless into my arms. Julia 
would have sprung to his assistance, but her strength was un- 
equal to the effort ; her maid screamed for help, and several of 
the servants rushed into the room. We recovered the hapless 
Montauban ; he looked round wildly for a moment, then fast- 
ening his eyes on Julia — " I have murdered thee," he cried ; 

" that draught I gave thee that draught was death ! He 

would have pressed her to his bosom ; she sunk from his em- 
brace — her closing eye looked piteous upon him her hand 

was half stretched to his — and a single sigh breathed out her 
soul to heaven ! 

" She shall not die," he cried, eagerly catching hold of her 
hand, and bending over her lifeless body with a glare of incon- 
ceivable horror in his aspect. I laid hold of his arm, endeavor- 
ing to draw his attention towards me ; but he seemed not to 
regard me, and continued that frightful gaze upon the remains 
of his much-injured wife. I made a sign for the servants to 
assist me, and taking his band, began to use a gentle sort of 
violence to lead him away. He started back a few paces, with- 
out, however, altering the direction of his eye, "you may tor- 
ture me," cried he wildly, " I can bear it all — Ha ! Segarva 
there ! — let them prove the handwriting if they can — mark it, I 
say, there is no blood in her face — let me ask one question of 
the doctor — you know the effects of poison — her lips are white 

—bid Savillon kiss them now they shall speak no more — 

Julia shall speak no more !" 

Word was now brought me, that the physician, who had been 
sent for to the assistance of Julia, was arrived. He had come, 
alas ! too late for her ; but I meant to use his skill on behalf of 
Montauban. I repeated my endeavors, to get him away from 
the dreadful object before him ; and at last, though he seemed 
not to heed the entreaties I made use of, he allowed himself to 
be conducted to his own apartment, where the doctor was in 
waiting. There were marks of confusion in this man's coun- 
tenance, which I wished to dissipate. I made use of some ex- 
pressive looks, to signify that he should appear more easy ; and, 
assuming that manner myself, begged Montauban to allow him 
to feel his pulse. " You come to see my wife," said he, turning 
towards him — " tread softly — she will do well enough when she 
wakes. There ! (stretching out his arm) — your hand trembles 
sadly ; I will count the beatings myself — here is something 
amiss ; but I am not mad. Your name is Arpentier, mine is 
Montauban — I am not mad." The physician desired him to get 



JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 461 

undressed, and go to bed. " I mean to do so, for I have 
not slept these two nights — but it is better not. Give me 
some potion against bad dreams — that's well thought on, that's 
well thought on !" 

His servant had begun to undress him. He went for a few 
minutes into his closet ; he returned with his nightgown on, 
and his look appeared more thoughtful and less wild than 
formerly. He made a slight bow to the physician : " I shall 
see you when I rise, Sir. — Rouille, is it not V addressing him- 
self to me, and squeezing my hand. " I am not fit for talking 
just now, I know I am not — Good-night!" I left him, whis- 
pering his servant to stay in the room, unperceived if he could; 
but at any rate, not to leave his master alone. 

I know not how I was so long able to command reflection. 
The moment I left Montauban, the horror of the scene I had 
witnessed rushed upon my mind, and I remember nothing of 
what passed, till I found myself kneeling before the breathless 
remains of the ill-fated Julia. The doctor was standing by me 
with a letter in his hand : it was written by Montauban, and had 
been found open on the table of his study. Arpentier gave it 
me, saying, it contained things which should be communicated 
only to the friends of the count. From it I discovered the 
dreadful certainty of what I had before gathered from the dis- 
tracted words of Montauban. He had supposed his wife faith- 
less, his bed dishonored, and had revenged the imagined injury 
by poison. My God ! I can scarce, at this moment, believe 
that I have waked and seen this. 

But his servant now came running into the room, calling for 
us to hasten into his master's chamber, for that he feared he 
was dead. We rushed into the room together — it was too true : 
Montauban was no more ! The doctor tried, he confessed with- 
out hope, several expedients to revive him ; but they failed of 
success. I hung over the bed entranced in the recollection of 
the fateful events I had seen. Arpentier, from the habit of look- 
ing on the forms of death, was more master of himself; after 
examining the body, and pondering a little on the behaviour of 
the count, he went into the closet, where he found on a small 
table, a phial uncorked, which he brought to me. It explained 
the fate of Montauban ; a label fastened to it, was inscribed 
laudanum ; its deadly contents he had swallowed in his delir- 
ium, before he went to bed. 

Such was the conclusion of a life distinguished by the exer- 
cise of svery manly virtue ; and, except in this instance, un- 
stained with a crime. While I mourn the fate of his most 
amiable wife, I recall the memory of my once dearly valued 
friend, and would shelter it with some apology if I could. Let 

39* 



462 JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 

that honor which he worshipped plead in his defence. That 
honor we have worshipped together, and I would not weaken 
its sacred voice ; but I look on the body of Montauban — I 
weep over the pale corpse of Julia ! I shudder at the sacrifices 
of mistaken honor, and lift up my hands to pity and to justice. 



1 



END OF JULIA DE ROUBIGNE. 






PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR 

A PERIODICAL PAPER, 
PUBLISHED AT EDINBURGH IN THE YEARS 1779-80. 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 



[No. 12. Saturday, March 6, 1779.] 

To the Author of the Mirror : 

Sir — I am a plain country gentleman, with a small fortune 
and a large family. My boys, all except the youngest, I have 
contrived to set out into the world in tolerably promising situa- 
tions. My two eldest girls are married ; one to a clergyman, 
with a very comfortable living, and a respectable character ; the 
other to a neighbor of my own, who farms most of his own 
estate, and is supposed to know country business as well as any 
man in this part of the kingdom. I have four other girls at 
home, whom I wish to make fit wives for men of equal rank 
with their brothers-in-law. 

About three months ago, a great lady in our neighborhood (at 
least as neighborhood is reckoned in our quarter) happened to' 
meet the two eldest of my unmarried daughters at the house of a 
gentleman, a distant relation of mine, and, as well as myself, a 
freeholder in our county. The girls are tolerably handsome, 
and I have endeavored to make them understand the common 
rules of good-breeding. My Lady rang out to my kins- 
man, who happens to have no children of his own, in praise of 
their beauty and politeness, and, at parting, gave them a most 
pressing invitation to come and spend a week with her during 
the aproaching Christmas holidays. On my daughters' return 
from their kinsman's, I was not altogether pleased of hearing 
of this invitation ; nor was I more satisfied with the very fre- 
quent quotations of my Lady 's sayings and sentiments, 

and the descriptions of the beauty of her complexion, the ele- 
gance of her dress, and the grandeur of her equipage. I op- 
posed, therefore, their design of paying this Christmas visit 
pretty warmly. Upon this, the honor done them by the invita- 
tion, the advantages to be derived from the acquaintance with 
the great lady, and the benefit that might accrue to my family 
from the influence of her lord, were immediately rung in my 



466 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

ears, not only by my daughters, but also by their mother, whom 
they had already gained over to their side ; and I must own to 
you, Mr. Mirror, though I would not have you think me hen- 
pecked, that my wife, somehow or other, contrives to carry 
most points in our family ; so my opposition was over-ruled ; 

and to the girls went ; but not before they had made 

a journey to the metropolis of our county, and brought back a 
portmanteau full of necessaries, to qualify them for appearing 
decently, as my wife said, in the company they should meet 
there. 

In about a month, for their visit was drawn out to that length, 
my daughters returned. But had you seen, Mr. Mirror, what 
an alteration that month had made on them ! Instead of the 
rosy complexions, and sparkling eyes, they had carried with 
them, they brought back cheeks as white as a curd, and eyes 
as dead as the beads in the face of a wax baby. 

I could not help expressing my surprise at the sight ; but the 
younger of the two ladies immediately cut me short, by telling 
me that their complexion was the only one worn at . 

And no wonder, Sir, it should, from the description which my 
daughters sometimes give us of the life people lead there. In- 
stead of rising at seven, breakfasting at nine, dining at three, 
supping at eight, and getting to bed by ten, as was their custom 
at home, my girls lay till twelve, breakfasted at one, dined at 
six, supped at eleven, and were never in bed till three in the 
morning. Their shapes had undergone as much alteration as 
their faces. From their bosoms [necks they call them), which 
were squeezed up to their throats, their waists tapered down to 
a very extraordinary smallness ; they resembled the upper half 
of an hourglass. At this, also, I marvelled ; but it was the only 
shape worn at . Next day, at dinner, after a long morn- 
ing preparation, they appeared with heads of such a size, 
that my little parlor was not of height enough to let them stand 
upright in it. This was the most striking metamorphosis of all. 
Their mother stared ; I ejaculated ; my other children burst out 
a laughing ; the answer was the same as before ; it was the only 
head worn at . 

Nor is their behaviour less changed than their garb. Instead 
of joining in the good-humored cheerfulness we used to have 
among us before, my two fine young ladies check every ap- 
proach to mirth, by calling it vulgar. One of them chid their 
brother the other day for laughing, and told him it was mon- 
strously ill-bred. In the evenings, when we were wont, if we 
had nothing else to do, to fall to blindman's-bufT, or cross-pur- 
poses, or sometimes to play at loo for cherry-stones, these two 
get a pack of cards to themselves, and sit down to play for any 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 467 

little money their visit has left them, at a game none of us know 
any thing about. It seems, indeed, the dullest of all amuse- 
ments, as it consists in merely turning up the faces of the cards, 
and repeating their names from an ace upwards, as if the play- 
ers were learning to speak, and had got only thirteen words in 

their vocabulary. But of this and every other custom at , 

nobody is allowed to judge but themselves. They have got a 
parcel of phrases, which they utter on all occasions as decisive, 
French, I believe, though I can scarce find any of them in the 
dictionary, and am unable to put them upon paper ; but all of 
them mean something extremely fashionable, and are constantly 
supported by the authority of my lady, or the countess, his lord- 
ship, or Sir John. 

As they have learned many foreign, so have they unlearned 
some of the most common and best understood home phrases. 
When one of my neighbors was lamenting the extravagance and 
dissipation of a young kinsman who had spent his fortune, and 
lost his health in London and at Newmarket, they called it life, 
and said it showed spirit in the young man. After the same rule 
they lately declared, that a gentleman could not live on less than 
1000/. a year, and called the account which their mantuamaker 
and milliner sent me, for their fineries purchased for their visit 

at , a trifle, though it amounted to 59/. lis. 4d. ; exactly 

a fourth part of the clear income of my estate. 

All this, Mr. Mirror, I look upon as a sort of pestilential dis- 
order, with which my poor daughters have been infected in the 
course of this unfortunate visit. This consideration has induced 
me to treat them hitherto with lenity and indulgence, and try to 
effect their cure by mild methods, which indeed suit my temper 
(naturally of a pliant kind, as every body, except my wife, says) 
better than harsh ones. Yet I confess, I could not help being 
in a passion t'other day, when the disorder showed symptoms 
of a more serious kind. Would you believe it, Sir, my daughter 
Elizabeth (since her visit she is offended if we call her Betty) 
said it was fanatical to find fault with card playing on Sunday ; 
and her sister Sophia gravely asked my son-in-law, the clergy- 
man, if he had not some doubts of the soul's immortality. 

As certain great cities, I have heard, are never free from the 
plague, and at last come to look upon it as nothing terrible or 
extraordinary ; so, I suppose, in London, or even your town, 
Sir, this disease always prevails, and is but little dreaded. But, 
in the country, it will be productive of melancholy effects in- 
deed : if suffered to spread there, it will not only embitter our 
lives, and spoil our domestic happiness, as at present it does 
mine, but, in its most violent stages, will bring our estates to 
market, our daughters to ruin, and our sons to the gallows. Be 



468 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

so humane, therefore, Mr. Mirror, as to suggest some expedient 
for keeping it confined within those limits in which it rages at 
present. If no public regulation can be contrived for that pur- 
pose (though I cannot help thinking this disease of the great 
people merits the attention of government, as much as the dis- 
temper among the horned cattle,) try, at least, the effects of pri- 
vate admonition, to prevent the sound from approaching the 
infected ; let all little men like myself, and every member of 
their families, be cautious of holding intercourse with the per- 
sons or families of dukes, earls, lords, nabobs, or contractors, 
till they have good reason to believe that such persons and their 
households are in a sane and healthy state, and in no danger of 
communicating this dreadful disorder. And, if it has left such 
great and noble persons any feelings of compassion, pray put 
them in mind of that well known fable of the boys and the frogs, 
which they must have learned at school. Tell them, Sir, that, 
though the making fools of their poor neighbors may serve them 
for a Christmas gambol, it is matter of serious wretchedness 
to those poor neighbors in the afterpart of their lives ; " It 
is sport to them, but death to us." 

I am, Sir, &c. 

John Homespun. 



[No. 17. Tuesday, March 23, 1779.] 
Insanit veteres statuas Damasippus emendo. — Hot. 

To the Editor of the Mirror : 

Sir — As I am persuaded that you will not think it without 
the province of a work such as yours, to throw your eye some- 
times upon the inferior ranks of life, where there is any error 
that calls loud for amendment, I will make no apology for send- 
ing you the following narrative. 

I was married, about five years ago, to a young man in a 
good way of business, as a grocer, whose character, for sobriety 
and diligence in his trade, was such as to give me the assurance 
of a very comfortable establishment in the meantime, and, in 
case Providence should bless us with children, the prospect of 
making a tolerable provision for them. For three years after 
our marriage there never was a happier couple. Our shop was 
so well frequented, as to require the constant attendance of both 
of us ; and, as it was my greatest pleasure, to see the cheerful 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 469 

activity of my husband, and the obliging attention which he 
showed to every customer, he has often, during that happy time, 
declared to me, that the sight of my face behind the counter 
(though, indeed r Sir, my looks are but homely) made him think 
his humble condition far more blessed than that of the wealthiest 
of our neighbors, whose possessions deprived them of the high 
satisfaction of purchasing, by their daily labor, the comfort and 
happiness of a beloved object. 

In the evenings, after our small repast, which, if the day had 
been more than usually busy, we sometimes ventured to finish 
with a glass or two of punch ; while my husband was constantly 
engaged with his books and accounts, it was my employment to 
sit by his side knitting, and, at the same time, to tend the cradle 
of our first child, a girl, who is now a fine prattling creature of 
four years of age, and begins already to give me some little 
assistance in the care of a younger brother and sister. 

Such was the picture of our little family, in which we once 
enjoyed all the happiness that virtuous industry, and the most 
perfect affection can bestow. But those pleasing days, Mr. 
Mirror, are now at an end. 

The sources of unhappiness in my situation are very different 
from those of other unfortunate married persons. It is not of my 
husband's idleness or extravagance, his ill-nature or his ava- 
rice, that I have to complain ; neither are we unhappy from any 
decrease of affection, or disagreement in our opinions. But I 
will not, Sir, keep you longer in suspense. In short, it is my 
misfortune that my husband is become a man of taste. 

The first symptom of this malady, for it is now become a 
disease indeed, manifested itself, as I have said, about two years 
ago, when it was my husband's ill-luck to receive one day from 
a customer, in payment of a pound of sugar, a crooked piece 
of silver, which he, at first, mistook for a shilling, but found, 
on examination, to have some strange characters upon it, which 
neither of us could make any thing of. An acquaintance 
coming in, who, it seems, had some knowledge of those mat- 
ters, declared it at once to be a very curious coin of Alexander 
the Third ; and, affirming that he knew a virtuoso who would 
be extremely glad to be possessed of it, bid him half a guinea 
for it on the spot. My poor husband, who knew as little of 
Alexander the Third as of Alexander the Great, or his other 
namesake, the Coppersmith, was nevertheless persuaded, from 
the extent of the offer, and the opinion he had of his friend's 
discernment, that he was possessed of a very valuable curiosity; 
and in this he was fully confirmed, when, on showing it to the 
virtuoso above mentioned, he was immediately offered triple the 
former sum. This too was rejected, and the crooked coin was 

40 



470 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

now judged inestimable. It would tire your patience, Mr. 
Mirror, to describe minutely the progress of my husband's 
delirium. The neighbors soon heard of our acquisition, and 
flocked to be indulged with a sight of it. .Others who had 
valuable curiosities of the same kind, but were prudent enough 
not to reckon them quite beyond all price, were, by much 
entreaty, prevailed on by my husband to exchange them for 
guineas, half guineas, and crown pieces ; so that, in about a 
month's time, he could boast of being possessed of twenty 
pieces, all of inestimable value, which cost him only the trifling 
sum of 18/. 12s. 6d. 

But the malady did not rest here ; it is a dreadful thing, Mr. 
Mirror, to get a taste. It ranges from " heaven above, to the 
earth beneath, and to the waters under the earth." Every 
production of nature, or of art, remarkable either for beauty or 
deformity, but particularly, if either scarce or old, is now the 
object of my husband's avidity. The profits of our business, 
once considerable, but now daily diminishing, are expended, not 
only in coins, but on shells, lumps of different colored stones, 
dried butterflies, old pictures, ragged books, and worm-eaten 
parchments. 

Our house, which it was once my highest pleasure to keep in 
order, it would be now equally vain to attempt cleaning as the 
ark of Noah. The children's bed is supplied by an Indian 
canoe ; and the poor little creatures sleep three of them in a 
hammock, slung up to the roof between a stuffed crocodile, and 
the skeleton of a calf with two heads. Even the commodities 
of our shop have been turned out to make room for trash and 
vermin. Kites, owls, and bats are perched upon the top of our 
shelves ; and, it was but yesterday, that, putting my hand into 
a glass jar that used to contain pickles, I laid hold of a large 
tarantula in place of a mango. 

In the bitterness of my soul, Mr. Mirror, I have been often 
tempted to revenge myself on the objects of my husband's 
phrenzy, by burning, smashing, and destroying them without 
mercy ; but, besides that such violent procedure might have 
effects too dreadful upon a brain which, I fear, is already much 
unsettled, I could not take such a course, without being guilty of 
a fraud to our creditors, several of whom will, I believe, sooner 
or later, find it their only means of reimbursement, to take back 
each man his own monsters. 

Meantime, Sir, as my husband constantly peruses your paper, 
(one instance of his taste which I cannot object to) I have some 
small hopes that a good effect may be produced by giving him 
a fair view of himself in your moral looking; glass. If such 
should be the happy consequence of your publishing this letter* 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 471 

you shall have the sincerest thanks of a grateful heart, from 
your now disconsolate humble servant,* 

Rebecca Prune. 

I cannot help expressing my suspicion that Mrs. Rebecca 
Prune has got somebody to write her letter. If she wrote it 
herself, I am afraid it may be thought that the grocer's wife, 
who is so knowing in what she describes, and can joke so 
learned on her spouse's ignorance of the three Alexanders, 
has not much reason to complain of her husband's being a 
man of taste. 

Her case, however, is truly distressful, and in the particular 
species of her husband's disorder, rather uncommon. The taste 
of a man in his station, generally looks for some reputation from 
his neighbors and the world, and walks out of doors to show 
itself to both. 

I remember, a good many years ago, to have visited the villa 
of a citizen of Bath, who had made a considerable fortune by 
the profession of a toyman in that city. It was curious to ob- 
serve how much he had carried the ideas of his trade into his 
house and grounds, if such might be called a kind of gothic 
building, of about eighteen feet by twelve, and an enclosure, 
somewhat short of an acre. The first had only a few closets 
within ; but it made a most gallant and warlike show without. 
It had turrets about the size of the king at ninepins, and battle- 
ments like the side crust of a Christmas goose pie. To com- 
plete the appearance of a castle, we entered by a drawbridge, 
which, in construction and dimensions, exactly resembled the 
lid of a travelling trunk. To the right of the house was a pud- 
dle, which, however, was dignified with the name of a harbor, 
defended by two redoubts, under cover of which lay a vessel of 
the size of an ordinary bathing tub, mounting a parcel of old 
toothpick cases, fitted up into guns, and manned with some of 
the toyman's little family of plaything figures, with red jackets, 
and striped trowsers, whom he had impressed into the service. 
The place where this vessel lay, a fat little man, whom I had 
met on the shore, who seemed an intimate acquaintance of the 
proprietor, informed me was called Spithead, and the ship's 
name, he told me, pointing to the picture on her stern, was 
The Victory. 

This gentleman afterwards conducted me, not without some 
fear, across a Chinese bridge, to a pagoda, in which it was 
necessary to assume a posture of devotion, as there was not 

* The foregoing letter was written by Mr. Fraser Tytler, now Lord Wood- 
houselee ; the rest of the paper by Mr. Mackenzie. 



472 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

room to stand upright. On the sides of the great serpentine 
walk, as he termed it, by which we returned from this edifice, 
I found a device, which my cicerone looked upon as a master- 
stroke of genius. The ground was shaped into the figures of 
the different suits of cards ; so that here was the heart walk, the 
diamond walk, the club walk, and the spade walk ; the last of 
which had the additional advantage of being sure to produce a 
pun. On my observing how pleasant and ingenious all this 
was, my conductor answered, " Ay, ay, let him alone for that : 
he has given them a little of every thing, you see ; and so he 
may, Sir, for he can very well afford it." 

I believe we must rest the matter here. In this land of free- 
dom, there is no restraining the liberty of being ridiculous ; I 
would only entreat Mr. Prune, and, indeed, many of his betters, 
to have some regard for their wives and families, and not to 
make fools of themselves, till, like the Bath toyman, they can 
very well afford it. 



[No. 23. Tuesday, April 13, 1779.] 



Et isti 



Errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum. — Hor. 

I was lately applied to by a friend, in behalf of a gentleman, 
who, he said, had been unfortunate in life, to whom he was 
desirous of doing a particular piece of service, in which he 
thought my assistance might be useful : "Poor fellow," said he, 
" I wish to serve him, because 1 always knew him, dissipated 
and thoughtless as he was, to be a good-hearted man, guilty of 
many imprudent things, indeed, but without meaning any harm! 
In short, no one's enemy but his own." 

I afterwards learned more particularly the circumstances of 
this gentleman's life and conversation, which I will take the 
liberty of laying before my readers, in order to show them what 
they are to understand by the terms used by my friend — terms, 
which, I believe, he was nowise singular in using. 

The person, whose interests he espoused, was heir to a very 
considerable estate. He lost his father when an infant ; and 
being, unfortunately, an only son, was too much the darling of 
his mother ever to be contradicted. During his childhood he 
was not suffered to play with his equals, because he was to be 
the king of all sports, and to be allowed a sovereign and arbi- 
trary dominion over the persons and properties of his playfel- 
lows. At school he was attended by a servant, who helped 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 473 

him to thrash boys who were too strong to be thrashed by him- 
self; and had a tutor at home, who translated the Latin which 
was too hard for him to translate. At college he began to as- 
sume the man, by treating at taverns, making parties to the 
country, rilling his tutor drunk, and hiring blackguards to break 
the windows of the professor with whom he was boarded. He 
took in succession the degrees of a wag, a pickle, and a lad of 
mettle. For a while, having made an elopement with his 
mother's maid, and fathered three children of other people, he 
got the appellation of a dissipated dog ; but at last, betaking 
himself entirely to the bottle, and growing red-faced and fat, he 
obtained the denomination of an honest fellow ; which title he 
continued to enjoy as long as he had money to pay, or indeed 
much longer, while he had credit to score for his reckoning. 

During this last part of his progress, he married a poor girl, 
whom her father, from a mistaken idea of his fortune, forced to 
sacrifice herself to his wishes. Alter a very short space, he 
grew too indifferent about her to use her ill, and broke her heart 
with the best-natured neglect in the world. Of two children 
whom he had by her, one died at nurse soon after the death of 
its mother ; the eldest, a boy of spirit like his father, after twice 
running away from school, was at last sent on board a Guinea- 
man, and was knocked on the head by a sailor, in a quarrel 
about a negro wench, on the coast of Africa. 

Generosity, however, was a part of his character, which he 
never forfeited. Besides lending money genteelly to many 
worthless companions, and becoming surety for every man who 
asked him, he did some truly charitable actions to very deserv- 
ing objects. These were told to his honor ; and people who 
had met with refusals from more considerate men, spoke of such 
actions as the genuine test of feeling and humanity. They mis- 
interpreted scripture for indulgence to his errors on account of 
his charity, and extolled the goodness of his heart in every com- 
pany where he was mentioned. Even while his mother, during 
her last illness, was obliged to accept of money from her physi- 
cian, because she could not obtain payment of her jointure, and 
while, after his decease, his two sisters were dunning him every 
day, without effect, for the small annuity left them by their father, 
he was called a good-hearted man by three-fourths of his ac- 
quaintance ; and when, after having pawned their clothes, rather 
than distress him, those sisters commenced a lawsuit to enforce 
him to do them justice, the same impartial judges pronounced 
them hardhearted and unnatural : nay, the story is still told to 
their prejudice, though they now prevent their brother from 
starving, out of the profits of a little shop which they were then 
obliged to set up for their support. 

40* 



474 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

The abuse of the terms used by my friend, in regard to the 
character of this unfortunate man, would be sufficiently striking 
from the relation I have given, without the necessity of my 
offering any comment on it. Yet the misapplication of them is 
a thousand times repeated by people who have known and felt 
instances, equally glaring, of such injustice. It may seem in- 
vidious to lessen the praises of any praiseworthy quality ; but 
it is essential to the interests of virtue, that insensibility should 
not be allowed to assume the title of good nature, nor profusion 
to usurp the honors of generosity. 

The effect of such misplaced and ill-founded indulgence is 
hurtful in a double degree. It encourages the evil which it 
forbears to censure, and discourages the good qualities which 
are found in men of decent and sober characters. If we look 
into the private histories of unfortunate families, we shall find 
most of their calamities to have proceeded from a neglect of the 
useful duties of sobriety, economy, and attention to domestic 
concerns, which, though they shine not in the eye of the world, 
nay, are often subject to its obloquy, are yet the surest guardians 
of virtue, of honor, and of independence. 

" Be just before you are generous," is a good old proverb, 
which the profligate hero of a much admired comedy is made to 
ridicule, in a well-turned, and even a sentimental period. But 
what right have those squanderers of their own and other men's 
fortunes to assume the merit of generosity ? Is parting with 
that money, which they value so little, generosity ? Let them 
restrain their dissipation, their riot, their debauchery, when they 
are told that these bring ruin on the persons and families of the 
honest and the industrious ; let them sacrifice one pleasure to 
humanity, and then tell us of their generosity and their feeling. 
A transient instance, in which the prodigal relieved want with 
his purse, or the thoughtless debauchee promoted merit by his 
interest, no more deserves the appellation of generosity, than 
the rashness of a drunkard is entitled to the praises of valor, or 
the freaks of a madman to the laurels of genius. 

In the character of a man, considered as a being of any re- 
spect at all, we immediately see a relation to his friends, his 
neighbors, and his country. His duties only confer real dignity, 
and, what may not be so easily allowed, but is equally true, can 
bestow real pleasure. I know not an animal more insignificant, 
or less happy, than a man without any ties of affection, or any 
exercise of duty. He must be very forlorn, or very despicable, 
indeed, to whom it is possible to apply the phrase used by my 
friend, in characterizing the person whose story I have related 
as above, and to say, — that he is no one's enemy but his own. 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 475 

[No. 25. Tuesday, April 20, 1779.] 

To the Author of the Mirror : 

Silt — Some time ago, 1 troubled you with a letter, giving an 
account of a particular sort of grievance felt by the families of 
men of small fortunes, from their acquaintance with those of 
great ones. I am emboldened by the favorable reception of my 
first letter, to write you a second upon the same subject. 

You will remember, Sir, my account of a visit which my 
daughters paid to a great lady in our neighborhood, and of the 
effects which that visit had upon them. I was beginning to hope 
that time, and the sobriety of manners which home exhibited, 
would restore them to their former situation, when, unfortunate- 
ly, a circumstance happened, still more fatal to me than their 

expedition to . This, Sir, was the honor of a visit from the 

great lady in return. 

I was just returning from the superintendence of my ploughs 
in a field I have lately enclosed, when I was met, on the green 
before my door, by a gentleman (for such I took him to be) 
mounted upon a very handsome gelding, who asked me, by the 
appellation of honest friend, if this was not Mr. Homespun's ; 
and, in the same breath, whether the ladies were at home ? I 
told him, my name was Homespun, the house was mine, and 
my wife and daughters were, I believed, within. Upon this, 
the young man, pulling off his hat, and begging my pardon for 

calling me honest, said, he was despatched by Lady , with 

her compliments to Mrs. and Misses Homespun, and that, if 
convenient, she intended herself the honor of dining with them, 

on her return from B park (the seat of another great and 

rich lady in our neighborhood). 

I confess, Mr. Mirror, I was struck somewhat of an heap with 
the message ; and it would not, in all probability, have received 
an immediate answer, had it not been overheard by my eldest 
daughter, who had come to the window on the appearance of a 
stranger. "Mr. Papillot," said she immediately, "T rejoice to 
see you ; I hope your lady and all the family are well." " Very 
much at your service, Ma'am," he replied, with a low bow ; 
" my lady sent me before, with the offer of her best compliments, 
and that, if convenient," and so forth, repeating his words to me. 
" She does us infinite honor," said my young madam ; " let her 
ladyship know how happy her visit will make us ; but, in the 
meantime, Mr. Papillot, give your horse to one of the servants, 



476 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

and come in and have a glass of something after your ride." 
" I am afraid," answered he, (pulling out his righthand watch, 
for, would you believe it, Sir! the fellow had one in each fob,) 
*' I shall hardly have time to meet my lady at the place she ap- 
pointed me." On a second invitation, however, he dismounted, 
and went into the house, leaving his horse to the care of the ser- 
vants ; but the servants, as my daughter very well knew, were 
all in the fields at work ; so I, who have a liking for a good 
horse, and cannot bear to see him neglected, had the honor of 
putting Mr. Papillot's in the stable myself. 

After about an hour's stay, for the gentleman seemed to forget 
his hurry within doors, Mr. Papillot departed. My daughters, 
I mean the two polite ones, observed how handsome he was ; 
and added another observation, that it was only to particular 
friends my lady sent messages by him, who was her own body 
servant, and not accustomed to such offices. My wife seemed 
highly pleased with this last remark : I was about to be angry ; 
but on such occasions it is not my way to say much ; I gene- 
rally shrug up my shoulders in silence ; yet, as I said before, 
Mr. Mirror, I would not have you think me henpecked. 

By this time, every domestic about my house, male and fe- 
male, were called from their several employments to assist in 
the preparations for her ladyship's reception. It would tire you 
to enumerate the various shifts that were made, by purchasing, 
borrowing, &c, to furnish out a dinner suitable to the occasion. 
My little gray poney, which I kept for sending to market, broke 
his wind in the cause, and has never been good for any thing 
since. 

Nor was there less ado in making ourselves and our attend- 
ants fit to appear before such company. The female part of 
the family managed the matter pretty easily ; women, I observe, 
having a natural talent that way. My wife took upon herself 
the charge of apparelling me for the occasion. A laced suit, 
which I had worn at my marriage, was got up for the purpose ; 
but the breeches burst a seam at the very first attempt of pulling 
them on, and the sleeves of the coat were also impracticable : 
so she was forced to content herself with clothing me in my 
Sunday's coat and breeches, with the laced waistcoat of the 
abovementioned suit, slit in the back, to set them off a little. 
My gardener, who has been accustomed, indeed, to serve in 
many capacities, had his head cropped, curled, and powdered, 
for the part of butler : one of the best-looking ploughboys had a 
yellow cape clapped to his Sunday's coat, to make him pass for 
a servant in livery ; and we borrowed my son-in-law the par- 
son's man for a third hand. 

All this was accomplished, though not without some tumult 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 477 

and disorder, before the arrival of the great lady. She gave us, 
indeed, more time for the purpose than we looked for, as it was 
near six o'clock before she arrived. But this was productive 
of a misfortune on the other hand ; the dinner my poor wife 
had bustled, sweated, and scolded for, was so overboiled, over- 
stewed, and over roasted, that it needed the appetite of so late 
an hour to make it go down well even with me, who am not very 
nice in these matters ; luckily, her ladyship, as I am told, never 
eats much, for fear of spoiling her shape, now that small waists 
have come into fashion again. 

The dinner, however, though spoiled in the cooking, was 
not thrown away, as her ladyship's train made shift to eat the 
greatest part of it. When I say her train, I do not mean her 
servants only, of which there were half a dozen in livery, besides 
the illustrious Mr. Papillot, and her ladyship's maid, gentle- 
woman I should say, who had a table to themselves. Her 
parlor attendants were equally numerous, consisting of two 
ladies and six gentlemen, who had accompanied her ladyship 
in this excursion, and did us the honor of coming to eat and 
drink with us, and bringing their servants to do the same, though 
we had never seen or heard of them before. 

During the progress of this entertainment, there were several 
little embarrassments which might appear ridiculous in descrip- 
tion, but were matters of serious distress to us. Soup was 
spilled, dishes overturned, and glasses broken, by the awkward- 
ness of our attendants ; and things were not a bit mended by 
my wife's solicitude (who, to do her justice, had all her eyes 
about her) to correct them. 

From the time of her ladyship's arrival, it was impossible 
that dinner could be over before it was dark ; this, with the 
consideration of the bad road she had to pass through in her 
way to the next house she meant to visit, produced an invitation 
from my wife and daughters to pass the night with us ; which, 
after a few words of apology for the trouble she gave us, and a 
few more of the honor we received, was agreed to. This gave 
rise to a new scene of preparation, rather more difficult than 
that before dinner. My wife and I were dislodged from our 
own apartment, to make room for our noble guest. Our four 
daughters were crammed in by us, and slept on the floor, that 
their rooms might be left for the two ladies and four of the 
gentlemen who were entitled to the greatest degree of respect ; 
for the remaining two, we found beds at my son-in-law's. My 
two eldest daughters had, indeed, little time to sleep, being 
closeted the greatest part of the night with their right honor- 
able visiter. My offices were turned topsy-turvy for the accom- 



478 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

modation of the servants of my guests, and my horses turned 
into the fields, that theirs might occupy my stable. 

All these are hardships of their kind, Mr. Mirror, which the 
honor that accompanies them seems to me not fully to compen- 
sate ; but these are slight grievances, in comparison with what 
I have to complain of as the effects of this visit. The malady 
of my two eldest daughters is not only returned with increased 
violence upon them, but has now communicated itself to every 
other branch of my family. My wife, formerly a decent discreet 
woman, who liked her own way, indeed, but was a notable man- 
ager, now talks of this and that piece of expense as necessary 
to the rank of a gentlewoman, and has lately dropped some 
broad hints, that a winter in town is necessary to the accom- 
plishments of one. My two younger daughters have got the 
heads that formerly belonged to their eldest sisters, to each of 
whom, unfortunately, the great lady presented a set of feathers, 
for which new heads were essentially requisite. 

The inside of all of them has undergone a very striking met- 
amorphosis, from this one night's instruction of their visiter. 
There is, it seems, a fashion in morality, as well as in dress ; 
and the present mode is not quite so strait-laced as the stays are. 
My two fine ladies talked, a few mornings ago, of such a gentle- 
man's connexion with Miss C , and such another's arrange- 
ment with Lady G , with all the ease in the world ; yet 

these words, I find, being interpreted, mean nothing less than 
fornication and adultery. I sometimes remonstrate warmly, 
especially when I have my son-in-law to back me, against these 
newfangled freedoms ; but another doctrine they have learned 
is, that a father and a parson may preach as they please, but are 
to be followed only according to the inclination of their audience. 

Indeed, I could not help observing, that my Lady never 

mentioned her absent lord, (who, I understand, is seldom of her 
parties,) except sometimes to let us know how much she differed 
in opinion from him. 

This contempt of authority, and affectation of fashion, has 
gone a step lower in my household. My gardener has tied his 
hair behind, and stolen my flour to powder it, ever since he saw 
Mr. Papillot : and yesterday he gave me warning that he should 
leave me next term, if I did not take him into the house, and 
provide another hand for the work in the garden. I found a 
great hoyden, who washes my daughters' linens, sitting the other 
afternoon, dressed in one of their cast fly-caps, entertaining 
this same oaf of a gardener, and the wives of two of my farm- 
servants, with tea, forsooth ; and when I chid her for it, she 
replied, that Mrs. Dimity, my Lady 's gentlewoman, told 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 479 

her, all the maids at had tea, and saw company of an 

afternoon. 

But I am resolved on a reformation, Mr. Mirror, and shall 
let my wife and daughters know, that I will be master of my 
own house and my own expenses, and will neither be made a 
fool or a beggar, though it were after the manner of the greatest 
lord in Christendom. Yet I confess I am always for trying 
gentle methods first. I beg, therefore, that your will insert this 
in your next paper, and add to it some exhortations of your own 
to prevail on them, if possible, to give over a behaviour, which 
I think, under favor, is rather improper even in great folks, but 
is certainly ruinous to little ones. 

I am, Sir, &c. 

John Homespun. 



[No. 42. Saturday, June 19, 1779.] 

When I first undertook this publication, it was suggested by 
some of my friends, and, indeed, accorded entirely with my own 
ideas, that there should be nothing of religion in it. There is 
a sacredness in the subject that might seem profaned by its 
introduction into a work, which, to be extensively read, must 
sometimes be ludicrous, and often ironical. This consideration 
will apply, in the strongest manner, to any thing mystic or con- 
troversial ; but it may, perhaps, admit of an exception, when 
religion is only introduced as a feeling, not a system, as appeal- 
ing to the sentiments of the heart, not to the disquisitions of the 
head. The following story holds it up in that light, and is 
therefore, I think, admissible into the Mirror. It was sent to 
my editor as a translation from the French. Of this my readers 
will judge. Perhaps they might be apt to suspect, without any 
suggestion from me, that it is an original, not a translation. 
Indeed, I cannot help thinking, that it contains in it much of 
that picturesque description, and that power of awakening the 
tender feelings, which so remarkably distinguish the composi- 
tion of a gentleman whose writings I have often read with 
pleasure. But, be that as it may, as I felt myself interested in 
the narrative, and believed that it would affect my readers in 
the like manner, I have ventured to give it entire as I received 
it, though it will take up the room of three successive papers. 



480 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 



To the Author of the JWirror : 

Sir — More than forty years ago, an English philosopher, 
whose works have since been read and admired by all Europe, 
resided at a little town in France. Some disappointments in 
his native country had first driven him abroad, and he was 
afterwards induced to remain there, from having found, in this 
retreat, where the connexions even of nation and language were 
avoided, a perfect seclusion and retirement highly favorable to 
the development of abstract subjects, in which he excelled all 
the writers of his time. 

Perhaps, in the structure of such a mind as Mr. 's, the 

finer and more delicate sensibilities are seldom known to have 
place, or, if originally implanted there, are in a great measure 
extinguished by the exertions of intense study and profound 
investigation. Hence the idea of philosophy and unfeelingness 
being united, has become proverbial, and, in common language, 
the former word is often used to express the latter. Our philo- 
sopher had been censured by some, as deficient in warmth and 
feeling : but the mildness of his manners has been allowed by 
all ; and it is certain, that, if he was not easily melted into 
compassion, it was, at least, not difficult to awaken his be- 
nevolence. 

One morning, while he sat busied in those speculations, which 
afterwards astonished the world, an old female domestic, who 
served him for a housekeeper, brought him word, that an elderly 
gentleman and his daughter had arrived in the village, the pre- 
ceding evening, on their way to some distant country, and that the 
father had been suddenly seized in the night with a dangerous 
disorder, which the people of the inn where they lodged feared 
would prove mortal : that she had been sent for, as having some 
knowledge of medicine, the village surgeon being then absent ; 
and that it was truly piteous to see the good old man, who seem- 
ed not so much afflicted by his own distress as by that which it 
caused to his daughter. — Her master laid aside the volume 
in his hand, and broke off the chain of ideas it had inspired. 
His nightgown was exchanged for a coat, and he followed his 
gouvernante to the sick man's apartment. 

It was the best in the little inn where they lay, but a paltry 

one notwithstanding. Mr. was obliged to stoop as he 

entered it. It was floored with earth, and above were the joists 
not plastered, and hung with cobwebs. On a flock-bed, at one 
end, lay the old man he came to visit ; at the foot of it sat his 
daughter. She was dressed in a clean white bedgown ; her 
dark locks hung loosely over it as she bent forward, watching 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 481 

the languid looks of her father. Mr. and his house- 
keeper had stood some moments in the room without the young 
lady's being sensible of their entering it. " Mademoiselle !" 
said the old woman at last, in a soft tone. She turned and 
showed one of the finest faces in the world. It was touched, 
not spoiled with sorrow ; and when she perceived a stranger, 
whom the old woman now introduced to her, a blush at first, 
and then the gentle ceremonial of native politeness, which the 
affliction of the time tempered, but did not extinguish, crossed 
it for a moment, and changed its expression. It was sweetness 
all, however, and our philosopher felt it strongly. It was not a 
time for words ; he offered his services in a few sincere ones. 
" Monsieur lies miserably ill here," said the gouvernante ; " if 
he could possibly be moved any where." — " If he could be 
moved to our house," said her master. He had a spare bed 
for a friend, and there was a garret room unoccupied, next to 
the gouvernante's. It was contrived accordingly. The scru- 
ples of the stranger, who could look scruples, though he could 
not speak them, were overcome, and the bashful reluctance of 
his daughter gave way to her belief of its use to her father. 
The sick man was wrapped in blankets, and carried across the 
street to the English gentleman's. The old woman helped his 
daughter to nurse him there. The surgeon, who arrived soon 
after, prescribed a little, and nature did much for him ; in a 
week he was able to thank his benefactor. 

By that time his host had learned the name and character of 
his guest. He was a protestant clergyman of Switzerland, 
called La Roche, a widower, who had lately buried his wife, 
after a long and lingering illness, for which travelling had been 
prescribed, and was now returning home, after an ineffectual 
and melancholy journey, with his only child, the daughter we 
have mentioned. 

He was a devout man, as became his profession. He pos- 
sessed devotion in all its warmth, but with none of its asperity ; 
I mean that asperity which men, called devout, sometimes in- 
dulge in. Mr. , though he felt no devotion, never quar- 
relled with it in others. His gouvernante joined the old man 
and his daughter in the prayers and thanksgivings which they 
put up on his recovery ; for she, too, was a heretic, in the 
phrase of the village. The philosopher walked out, with his 
long staff and his dog, and left them to their prayers and 
thanksgivings. " My master," said the old woman, " alas ! he 
is not a Christian ; but he is the best of unbelievers.." " Not 
a Christian!" — exclaimed Mademoiselle La Roche, "yet he 
saved my father ! Heaven bless him for it ; I would he were a 
Christian!" "There is a pride in human knowledge, my child," 

41 



482 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

said her father, " which often blinds men to the sublime truths 
of revelation ; hence opposers of Christianity are found among 
men of virtuous lives, as well as among those of dissipated and 
licentious characters. Nay, sometimes, I have known the latter 
more easily converted to the true faith than the former, because 
the fume of passion is more easily dissipated than the mist of 

false theory, and delusive speculation." " But Mr. ," said 

his daughter, " alas I my father, he shall be a Christian before 
he dies ." She was interrupted by the arrival of their land- 
lord. He took her hand with an air of kindness : She 

drew it away from him in silence ; threw down her eyes to the 

ground, and left the room. " I have been thanking God," 

said the good La Roche, " for my recovery." " That is right," 
replied his landlord. " I would not wish," continued the old 
man, hesitatingly, " to think otherwise ; did I not look up with 
gratitude to that Being, I should barely be satisfied with my re- 
covery, as a continuation of life, which, it may be, is not a real 
good : — Alas ! I may live to wish I had died, that you had left 
me to die, Sir, instead of kindly relieving me ;" he clasped Mr. 

's hand — " but, when I look on this renovated being as the 

gift of the Almighty, I feel a far different sentiment — my heart 
dilates with gratitude and love to him : it is prepared for doing 
his will, not as a duty but as a pleasure, and regards every breach 
of it, not with disapprobation, but with horror." " You say right, 
my dear Sir," replied the philosopher ; " but you are not yet re- 
established enough to talk much — you must take care of your 
health, and neither study nor preach for some time. I have been 
thinking over a scheme that struck me to-day, when you men- 
tioned your intended departure. I never was in Switzerland: I 
have a great mind to accompany your daughter and you into 
that country. I will help to take care of you by the road ; for 
as I was your first physician, I hold myself responsible for your 
cure." La Roche's eyes glistened at the proposal ; his daugh- 
ter was called in and told of it. She was equally pleased with 
her father ; for they really loved their landlord — not perhaps the 
less for his infidelity ; at least that circumstance mixed a sort 
of pity with their regard for him — their souls were not of a mould 
for harsher feelings ; hatred never dwelt in them. 



PAPERS PROM THE MIRROR. 483 

[No. 43. Tuesday, June 22, 1779.] 
Continuation of the story of La Roche. 

They travelled by short stages ; for the philosopher was as 
good as his word, in taking care that the old man should not be 
fatigued. The party had time to be well acquainted with one 
another, and their friendship was increased by acquaintance. La 
Roche found a degree of simplicity and gentleness in his com- 
panion, which is not always annexed to the character of a learn- 
ed or a wise man. His daughter, who was prepared to be afraid 
of him, was equally undeceived. She found in him nothing of 
that self-importance which superior parts, or great cultivation 
of them, is apt to confer. He talked of every thing but philo- 
sophy and religion ; he seemed to enjoy every pleasure and 
amusement of ordinary life, and to be interested in the most 
common topics of discourse ; when his knowledge of learning 
at any time appeared, it was delivered with the utmost plain- 
ness, and without the least shadow of dogmatism. 

On his part, he was charmed with the society of the good 
clergyman and his lovely daughter. He found in them the 
guileless manner of the earliest times, with the culture and ac- 
complishment of the most refined ones. Every better feeling, 
warm and vivid ; every ungentle one repressed or overcome. 
He was not addicted to love ; but he felt himself happy in 
being the friend of Mademoiselle La Roche, and sometimes 
envied her father the possession of such a child. 

After a journey of eleven days, they arrived at the dwelling 
of La Roche. It was situated in one of those valleys of the 
canton of Berne, where nature seems to repose, as it were, in 
quiet, and has enclosed her retreat with mountains inaccessible. 
A stream, that spent its fury in the hills above, ran in front of 
the house, and a broken waterfall was seen through the wood 
that covered its sides; below it circled round a tufted plain, 
and formed a little lake in front of a village, at the end of which 
appeared the spire of La Roche's church, rising above a clump 
of beeches. 

Mr. — enjoyed the beauty of the scene ; but, to his com- 
panions, it recalled the memory of a wife and parent they had 
lost. The old man's sorrow was silent ; his daughter sobbed 
and wept. Her father took her hand, kissed it twice, pressed it 
to his bosom, threw up his eyes to heaven ; and, having wiped 
off a tear that was just about to drop from each, began to point 



484 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

out to his guest some of the most striking objects which the 
prospect afforded. The philosopher interpreted all this ; and 
he could but slightly censure the creed from which it arose. 

They had not been long arrived when a number of La Roche's 
parishioners, who had heard of his return, came to the house 
to see and welcome him. The honest folks were awkward, 
but sincere in their professions of regard. They made some 
attempts at condolence ; — it was too delicate for their handling ; 
but La Roche took it in good part. — " It has pleased God," — 
said he ; and they saw he had settled the matter with himself. 
Philosophy could not have done so much with a thousand words. 

It was now evening, and the good peasants were about to 
depart, when a clock was heard to strike seven, and the hour 
was followed by a particular chime. The country folks, who 
had come to welcome their pastor, turned their looks towards 
him at the sound ; he explained their meaning to his guest. 
" That is the signal," said he, " for our evening exercise : this 
is one of the nights of the week in which some of my parish- 
ioners are wont to join in it ; a little rustic saloon serves for the 
chapel of our family, and such of the good people as are with 
us : — if you choose rather to walk out, I will furnish you with 
an attendant ; or here are a few old books that may afford you 
some entertainment within." — " By no means," answered the 
philosopher ; " I will attend Mademoiselle at her devotions." — 
" She is our organist," said La Roche ; " our neighborhood is 
the country of musical mechanism ; and I have a small organ 
fitted up for the purpose of assisting our singing." — " 'Tis an 
additional inducement," replied the other ; and they walked into 
the room together. At the end stood the organ mentioned by 
La Roche ; before it was a curtain, which his daughter drew 
aside, and placing herself on a seat within, and drawing the cur- 
tain close, so as to save her the awkwardness of an exhibition, 
began a voluntary, solemn and beautiful in the highest degree. 

Mr. was no musician, but he was not altogether insensible 

to music ; this fastened on his mind more strongly, from its 
beauty being unexpected. The solemn prelude introduced a 
hymn, in which such of the audience as could sing, immediately 
joined ; the words were mostly taken from holy writ ; it spoke 
the praises of God, and his care of good men. Something was 
said of the death of the just, of such as die in the Lord. The 
organ was touched with a hand less firm ; — it paused, it ceased ; 
— and the sobbing of Mademoiselle La Roche was heard in its 
stead. Her father gave a sign for stopping the psalmody, and 
rose to pray. He was discomposed at first, and his voice 
faltered as he spoke ; but his heart was in his words, and its 
warmth overcame his embarrassment. He addressed a Being 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 485 

whom he loved, and he spoke for those he loved. His parish- 
ioners catched the ardor of the good old man ; even the philo- 
sopher felt himself moved, and forgot, for a moment, to think 
why he should not. 

La Roche's religion was that of sentiment, not theory, and 
his guest was averse from disputation ; their discourse, there- 
fore, did not lead to questions concerning the belief of either ; 
yet would the old man sometimes speak of his, from the fulness 
of a heart impressed with its force, and wishing to spread the 
pleasure he enjoyed in it. The ideas of his God, and his 
Saviour, were so congenial to his mind, that every emotion of 
it naturally awakened them. A philosopher might have called 
him an enthusiast ; but, if he possessed the fervor of enthusi- 
asts, he was guiltless of their bigotry. " Our Father which art 
in heaven !" might the good man say — for he felt it — and all 
mankind were his brethren. 

" You regret, my friend," said he to Mr. , " when my 

daughter and I talk of the exquisite pleasure derived from 
music ; you regret your want of musical powers and musical 
feelings ; it is a department of soul, you say, which nature has 
almost denied you, which, from the effects you see it have on 
others, you are sure must be highly delightful. Why should 
not the same thing be said of religion ? Trust me, I feel it in 
the same way — an *»%ergy, an inspiration, which I would not 
lose for all the blessings of sense, 01 enjoyment of the world ; 
yet, so far from lessening my relish of the pleasures of life, 
methinks I feel it heighten them all. The thought of receiving 
it from God, adds the blessing of sentiment to that of sensation 
in every good thing I possess ; and when calamities overtake 
me — and I have had my share — it confers a dignity on my af- 
fliction — so lifts me above the world. Man, I know, is but a 
worm ; yet, methinks, I am then allied to God !" It would 
have been inhuman in our philosopher to have clouded, even 
with a doubt, the sunshine of this belief. 

His discourse, indeed, was very remote from metaphysical 
disquisition, or religious controversy. Of all men I ever knew, 
his ordinary conversation was the least tinctured with pedantry, 
or liable to dissertation. With La Roche and his daughter, it 
was perfectly familiar. The country round them, the manners 
of the villagers, the comparison of both with those of England, 
remarks on the works of favorite authors, on the sentiments 
they conveyed, and the passions they excited, with many other 
topics in which there was an equality, or alternate advantage, 
among the speakers, were the subjects they talked on. Their 

hours too of riding and walking were many, in which Mr. , 

as a stranger, was shown the remarkable scenes and curiosities 

41* 



486 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

of the country. They would sometimes make little expeditions 
to contemplate, in different attitudes, those astonishing moun- 
tains, the cliffs of which, covered with eternal snows, and some- 
times shooting into fantastic shapes, form the termination of 
most of the Swiss prospects. Our philosopher asked many 
questions as to their natural history and productions. La 
Roche observed the sublimity of the ideas which the view of 
their stupendous summits, inaccessible to mortal foot, was cal- 
culated to inspire, which naturally, said he, leads the mind to 
that Being by whom their foundations were laid. — "• They are 
not seen in Flanders !" said Mademoiselle with a sigh. "• That's 

an odd remark," said Mr. , smiling. She blushed, and 

he inquired no farther. 

It was with regret he left a society in which he found himself 
so happy ; but he settled with La Roche and his daughter a 
plan of correspondence ; and they took his promise, that, if 
ever he came within fifty leagues of their dwelling, he should 
travel those fifty leagues to visit them. 



[No. 44. Saturday, June 26, 1779.] 

Conclusion of the story of La Roche. 

About three years after, our philosopher was on a visit at 
Geneva ; the promise he made to La Roche and his daughter, 
on his former visit, was recalled to his mind, by the view of that 
range of mountains, on a part of which they had often looked 
together. There was a reproach, too, conveyed along with the 
recollection, for his having failed to write to either for several 
months past. The truth was, that indolence was the habit 
most natural to him, from which he was not easily roused by 
the claims of correspondence, either of his friends or of his en- 
emies ; when the latter drew their pens in controversy, they 
were often unanswered as well as the former. While he was 
hesitating about a visit to La Roche, which he wished to make, 
but found the effort rather too much for him, he received a letter 
from the old man, which had been forwarded to him from Paris, 
where he had then fixed his residence. It contained a gentle 

complaint of Mr. 's want of punctuality, but an assurance 

of continued gratitude for his former good offices ; and, as a 
friend whom the writer considered interested in his family, it 
informed him of the approaching nuptials of Mademoiselle La 
Roche, with a young man, a relation of her own t and formerly 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 487 

a pupil of her father's, of the most amiable dispositions, and re- 
spectable character. Attached from their earliest years, they 
had been separated by his joining one of the subsidiary regi- 
ments of the canton, then in the service of a foreign power. 
In this situation, he had distinguished himself as much for cour- 
age and military skill, as for the other endowments which he had 
cultivated at home. The time of his service was now expired, 
and they expected him to return in a few weeks, when the old 
man hoped, as he expressed it in his letter, to join their hands, 
and see them happy before he died. 

Our philosopher felt himself interested in this event ; but he 
was not, perhaps, altogether so happy in the tidings of Madem- 
oiselle La Roche's marriage, as her father supposed him. Not 
that he was ever a lover of the lady's ; but he thought her one 
of the most amiable women he had seen, and there was some- 
thing in the idea of her being another's for ever, that struck him, 
he knew not why, like a disappointment. After some little 
speculation on the matter, however, he could look on it as a 
thing fitting if not quite agreeable, and determined on this visit 
to see his old friend and his daughter happy. 

On the last day of his journey different accidents had retard- 
ed his progress : he was benighted before he reached the quar- 
ter in which La Roche resided. His guide, however, was well 
acquainted with the road, and he found himself at last in view 
of the lake, which I have before described, in the neighborhood 
of La Roche's dwelling. A light gleamed on the water, that 
seemed to proceed from the house ; it moved slowly along as 
he proceeded up the side of the lake, and at last he saw it glim- 
mer through the trees, and stop at some distance from the place 
where he then was. He supposed it some piece of bridal mer- 
riment, and pushed on his horse that he might be a spectator of 
the scene ; but he was a good deal shocked, on approaching 
the spot, to find it proceed from the torch of a person clothed 
in the dress of an attendant on a funeral, and accompanied by 
several others, who, like hirn, seemed to have been employed 
in the rites of sepulture. 

On Mr. 's making inquiry who was the person they had 

been burying? one of them, with an accent more mournful than 
is common to their profession, answered, " Then you knew 
not Mademoiselle, Sir? — you never beheld a lovelier" — "La 
Roche !" exclaimed he, in reply — "Alas it was she indeed !" — 
The appearance of surprise and grief which his countenance 
assumed, attracted the notice of the peasant with whom he talk- 
ed. He came up closer to Mr. ; " I perceive, Sir, you 

were acquainted with Mademoiselle La Roche." "Acquainted 
with her !— Good God ! — when — how — where did she die ? 



488 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

Where is her father V 9 " She died, Sir, of heart-break, I be- 
lieve ; the young gentleman to whom she was soon to have 
been married, was killed in a duel by a French officer, his inti- 
mate companion, and to whom, before their quarrel, he had 
often done the greatest favors. Her worthy father bears her 
death, as he has often told us a Christian should ; he is even 
so composed, as to be now in his pulpit, ready to deliver a few 
exhortations to his parishioners, as is the custom with us on 
such occasions ; — Follow me, Sir, and you shall hear him." — 
He followed the man without answering. 

The church was dimly lighted, except near the pulpit, where 
the venerable La Roche was seated. His people were now 
lifting up their voices in a psalm to that Being whom their pas- 
tor had taught them ever to bless and to revere. La Roche 
sat, his figure bending gently forward, his eyes half-closed, lifted 
up in silent devotion. A lamp placed near him, threw its light 
strong on his head, and marked the shadowy lines of age across 
the paleness of his brow, thinly covered with gray hairs. 

The music ceased ; La Roche sat for a moment, and nature 
wrung a few tears from him. His people were loud in their 

grief. Mr. was not less affected than they. La Roche 

arose. " Father of mercies !" said he, " forgive these tears ; 
assist thy servant to lift up his soul to thee ; to lift to thee the 
souls of thy people ? My friends, it is good so to do ; at all 
seasons it is good ; but, in the days of our distress, what a priv- 
ilege it is ! Well saith the sacred book, 4 Trust in the Lord ; 
at all times trust in the Lord.' When every other support fails 
us, when the fountains of worldly comfort are dried up, let us 
then seek those living waters which flow from the throne of 
God. 'Tis only from the belief of the goodness and wisdom 
of a Supreme Being, that our calamities can be borne in that 
manner which becomes a man. Human wisdom is here of 
little use ; for, in proportion as it bestows comfort, it represses 
feeling, without which we may cease to be hurt by calamity, but 
we shall also cease to enjoy happiness. I will not bid you be 
insensible, my friends ! I cannot, I cannot if I would," his tears 
flowed afresh — " I feel too much myself, and I am not ashamed 
of my feelings ; but therefore may I the more willingly be 
heard ; therefore have I prayed God to give me strength to 
speak to you ; to direct you to Him, not with empty words, but 
with these tears ; not from speculation but from experience, — 
that while you see me suffer, you may know also my consolation. 

u You behold the mourner of his only child, the last earthly- 
stay and blessing of his declining years ! Such a child too ! 
— It becomes not me to speak of her virtues ; yet it is but 
gratitude to mention them, because they were exerted towards 



Papers from the mirror. 489 

myself. Not many days ago you saw her young, beautiful, 
virtuous, and happy ; ye who are parents will judge of my 
felicity then, — ye will judge of my affliction now. But I look 
towards Him who struck me ; I see the hand of a father amidst 
the chastenings of my God. Oh ! could I make you feel what 
it is to pour out the heart, when it is pressed down with many 
sorrows, to pour it out with confidence to Him, in whose hands 
are life and death — on whose power awaits all that the first en- 
joys, and in contemplation of whom disappears all that the last 
can inflict ! For we are not as those who die without hope ; we 
know that our Redeemer liveth, — that we shall live with Him, 
with our friends, His servants, in that blessed land where sorrow 
is unknown, and happiness is endless as it is perfect. Go then, 
mourn not for me ; I have not lost my child : but a little while, 
and we shall meet again never to be separated. But ye are 
also my children : would ye that I should not grieve without 
comfort? So long as she lived — that, when your death cometh, 
it may be the death of the righteous, and your latter end like his." 

Such was the exhortation of La Roche : his audience an- 
swered it with their tears. The good old man had dried up his 
at the altar of the Lord : his countenance had lost its sadness 

and assumed the glow of faith and hope. Mr. followed him 

into his house. The inspiration of the pulpit was past ; at sight 
of him the scenes they had last met in rushed again on his mind ; 
La Roche threw his arms around his neck, and watered it with 
his tears. The other was equally affected ; they went together, 
in silence, into the parlor, where the evening service was wont 
to be performed. The curtains of the organ were open ; La 
Roche started back at the sight. " Oh ! my friend !" said he, 

and his tears burst forth again. Mr. had now recollected 

himself; he stepped forward, and drew the curtains close — 
the old man wiped off his tears, and taking his friend's hand, 
" You see my weakness," said he, " 'tis the weakness of hu- 
manity ; but my comfort is not therefore lost." " I heard you," 
said the other, " in the pulpit ; I rejoice that such consolation is 
yours." " It is, my friend," said he ; " and I trust I shall ever 
hold it fast ; if there are any who doubt our faith, let them 
think of what importance religion is to calamity, and forbear to 
weaken its force ; if they cannot restore our hapiness, let them 
not take away the solace of our affliction." 

Mr. 's heart was smitten ; and I have heard him, long 

after, confess, that there were moments when the remembrance 
overcame him even to weakness ; when, amidst all the pleasures 
of philosophical discovery, and the pride of literary fame, he 
recalled to his mind the venerable figure of the good La Roche, 
and wished that he had never doubted. 



490 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR, 



[No. 49. Tuesday, July 13, 1779.] 

As I walked one evening, about a fortnight ago, through Si, 
Andrew's square, I observed a girl, meanly dressed, coming 
along the pavement at a slow pace. When I passed her, she 
turned a little towards me, and made a sort of halt ; but said no- 
thing. I am ill at looking any body full in the face ; so I went 
on a few steps before I turned my eye to observe her. She 
had, by this time, resumed her former pace. I remarked a cer- 
tain elegance in her form which the poorness of her garb could 
not altogether overcome. Her person was thin and genteel, 
and there was something not ungraceful in the stoop of her 
head, and the seeming feebleness with which she walked. I 
could not resist the desire which her appearance gave me, of 
knowing somewhat of her situation and circumstances : I there- 
fore walked back, and repassed her with such a look (for I could 
bring myself to nothing more) as might induce her to speak 
what she seemed desirous to say at first. This had the effect I 
wished. — " Pity a poor orphan !" said she, in a voice tremulous 
and weak. I stopped, and put my hand in my pocket : I had 
now a better opportunity of observing her. Her face was thin 
and pale ; part of it was shaded by her hair of a light brown 
color, which was parted, in a disordered manner, at her fore- 
head, and hung loose upon her shoulders ; round them was cast 
a piece of tattered cloak, which, with one hand, she held across 
her bosom, while the other was half outstretched to receive the 
bounty I intended for her. Her large blue eyes were cast on 
the ground : she was drawing back her hand as I put a trifle 
into it : on receiving which she turned them up to me, muttered 
something which I could not hear, and then letting go her cloak, 
and pressing her hands together, burst into tears. 

It was not the action of an ordinary beggar, and my curiosity 
was strongly excited by it. I desired her to follow me to the 
house of a friend hard by, whose beneficence I have often had 
occasion to know. When she arrived there, she was so fatigued 
and worn out, that it was not till after some means used to re- 
store her, that she was able to give us an account of her mis- 
fortunes. 

Her name, she told us, was Collins ; the place of her birth 
one of the northern counties of England. Her father, who had 
died several years ago, left her remaining parent with the charge 
of her, then a child, and one brother, a lad of seventeen. By 
his industry, however, joined to that of her mother, they were 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 491 

tolerably supported, their father having died possessed of a small 
farm, with the right of pasturage on an adjoining common, from 
which they obtained a decent livelihood ; that, last summer, her 
brother having become acquainted with a recruiting sergeant, 
who was quartered in a neighboring village, was by him enticed 
to enlist as a soldier, and soon after was marched off, along 
with some other recruits, to join his regiment : that this, she 
believed, broke her mother's heart, for that she had never after- 
wards had a day's health, and, at length, had died about three 
weeks ago : that, immediately after her death, the steward em- 
ployed by the squire of whom their farm was held, took posses- 
sion of every thing for the arrears of their rent : that, as she 
had heard her brother's regiment was in Scotland when he 
enlisted, she had wandered hither in quest of him, as she had 
no other relation in the world to own her ! But she found, on 
arriving here, that the regiment had been embarked several 
months before, and was gone a great way off, she could not tell 
whither. 

" This news," said she, " laid hold of my heart ; and I have 
had something wrong here," putting her hand to her bosom, 
" ever since. I got a bed and some victuals in the house of a 
woman here in town, to whom I told my story, and who seemed 
to pity me. I had then a little bundle of things, which I had 
been allowed to take with me after my mother's death ; but 
the night before last, somebody stole it from me while I slept; 
and so the woman said she would keep me no longer, and turned 
me out into the street, where I have since remained, and am 
almost famished for want." 

She was now in better hands ; but our assistance had come too 
late. A frame, naturally delicate, had yielded to the fatigues 
of her journey, and the hardships of her situation. She declined 
by slow and uninterrupted degrees, and yesterday breathed her 
last. A short while before she expired, she asked to see me ; 
and taking from her bosom a little silver locket, which she told 
me had been her mother's, and which all her distresses could 
not make her part with, begged I would keep it for her dear 
brother, and give it him, if ever he should return home, as a 
token of her remembrance. 

I felt this poor girl's fate strongly ; but I tell not her story 
merely to indulge my feelings ; I would make the reflections it 
may excite in my readers, useful to others who may suffer from 
similar causes. There are many, I fear, from whom their 
country has called brothers, sons, or fathers, to bleed in her 
service, forlorn, like poor Nancy Collins, with " no relation in 
the world to own them." Their sufferings are often unknown, 
when they are such as most demand compassion. The mind 



492 PAPERS FROM THE MTRROR. 

that cannot obtrude its distresses upon the eye of pity, is formed 
to feel their poignancy the deepest. 

In our idea of military operations, we are too apt to forget 
the misfortunes of the people. In defeat, we think of the fall, 
and in victory, of the glory of commanders ; we seldom allow 
ourselves to consider, how many, in a lower rank, both events 
make wretched : how many, amidst the acclamations of national 
triumph, are left to the helpless misery of the widowed and the 
orphan ; and, while Victory celebrates her festival, feel, in their 
distant hovels, the extremities of want and wretchedness ! 

It was with pleasure I saw, among the resolutions of a late 
patriotic assembly in this city, an agreement to assist the poor 
families of our absent soldiers and seamen. With no less satis- 
faction I read in some late newspapers, a benevolent advertise- 
ment for a meeting of gentlemen, to consider of a subscription 
for the same purpose. At this season of general and laudable 
exertion, I am persuaded such a scheme cannot fail of patronage 
and success. The benevolence of this country requires not 
argument to awaken it ; yet the pleasures of its exertion must 
be increased by the thought, that pity to such objects is patriot- 
ism ; that, here, private compassion becomes public virtue. 
Bounties for the encouragement of recruits to our fleets and 
armies, are highly meritorious donations. These, however* 
may sometimes bribe the covetous, and allure the needy ; but 
that charity which gives support and protection to the families 
they leave behind, addresses more generous feelings ; feelings 
which have always been held congenial to bravery and to hero- 
ism. It endears to them that home which their swords are to 
defend, and strengthens those ties which should ever bind the 
soldiers of a free state to his country. 

Nor will such a provision be of less advantage to posterity 
than to the present times. It will save to the state many useful 
subjects which those families thus supported may produce, 
whose lives have formerly been often nurtured by penury to 
vice, and rendered not only useless but baneful to the commu- 
nity ; that community which, under a more kindly influence, 
they might, like their fathers, have enriched by their industry, 
and protected by their valor. 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 493 

[No. 53. Tuesday, July 26, 1779.] 

To the Author of the Mirror : 

Sir — I am one of the young women mentioned in two letters 
which you published in your 12th and 25th numbers, though 
I did not know till very lately that our family had been put into 
print in the Mirror. Since it is so, I think I too may venture 
to write you a letter, which, if it be not quite so well written 
as my father's, (though I am no great admirer of his style 
neither,) will at least be as true. 

Soon after my Lady 's visit to our house, of which the 

last of my father's letters informed you, a sister of his, who is 
married to a man of business here in Edinburgh, came with her 
husband to see us in the country ; and, though my sister Mary 
and I soon discovered many vulgar things about them, yet, as 
they were both very good-humored sort of people, and took 
great pains to make themselves agreeable, we could not help 
looking with regret to the time of their departure. When that 
drew near, they surprised us, by an invitation to me, to come 
and spend some months with my cousins in town, saying, that 
my mother could not miss my company at home, while she had 
so good a companion and assistant in the family as her daughter 
Mary. 

To me there were not so many allurements in this journey 
as might have been imagined. I had lately been taught to look 
on London as the only capital worth visiting ; besides that, I 
did not expect the highest satisfaction from the society I should 
meet with at my aunt's, which, I confess, I was apt to suppose 
none of the most genteel. I contrived to keep the matter in 
suspense, (for it was left entirely to my own determination,) till 

I should write for the opinion of my friend, Lady , on the 

subject ; for, ever since our first acquaintance, we had kept up 
a constant and regular correspondence. In our letters, which 
were always written in a style of the warmest affection, we were 
in the way of talking with the greatest freedom of every body 
of our acquaintance. It was delightful, as her ladyship ex- 
pressed it, "to unfold one's feelings in the bosom of friendship ;" 
and she accordingly was wont to send me the most natural and 

lively pictures of the company who resorted to ; and I, in 

return, transmitted her many anecdotes of those persons which 
chance or greater intimacy, gave me an opportunity of learning. 
To prevent discovery, we corresponded under the signatures of 

42 



494 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

Hortensia and Leonora ; and some very particular intelligence 
her ladyship taught me not to commit to ink, but to set down in 
lemon juice. — I wander from my story, Mr. Mirror ; " but I 
cannot help fondly recalling (as Emilia, in the novel, says,) 
those halcyon days of friendship and felicity." 

When her ladyship's answer arrived, I found her clearly of 
opinion, that I ought to accept of my aunt's invitation. She 
was very jocular on the manners which she supposed I should 
find in that lady's family ; but she said I might take the oppor- 
tunity of making some acquirements, which, though London 
alone could perfect, Edinburgh might, in some degree, com- 
municate. She concluded her letter with requesting the con- 
tinuation of my correspondence, and a narrative of every thing 
that was passing in town, especially with regard to some ladies 
and gentlemen of her acquaintance, whom she pointed out to 
my particular observation. 

To Edinburgh, therefore, I accompanied my aunt, and found 
a family very much disposed to make me happy. In this they 
might, perhaps, have succeeded more completely, had I not 

acquired, from the instructions of Lady , and the company 

I saw at her house, certain notions of polite life, with which I 

did not find any thing at Mr. 's correspond. It was often, 

indeed, their good-humor which offended me as coarse, and 
their happiness that struck me as vulgar. There was not such 
a thing as hip, or low spirits, among them ; a sort of finery 

which, at , I found a person of fashion could not possibly 

be without. 

They were at great pains to show me any sights that were to 
be seen, with some of which I was really little pleased, and with 
others I thought it would look like ignorance to seem pleased. 
They took me to the playhouse, where there was little company, 
and very little attention. I was carried to the concert, where 
the case was exactly the same. I found great fault with both ; 
for though I had not much skill, I had got words enough for 

finding fault from my friend Lady : upon which they 

made an apology for our entertainment, by telling me, that the 
playhouse was, at that time, managed by a fiddler, and the 
concert was allowed to manage itself. 

Our parties at home were agreeable enough. I found Mr. 

's and my aunt's visiters very different from what I had 

been made to expect, and not at all the cockneys my Lady 

, and some of her humorous guests, used to describe. 

They were not, indeed, so polite as the fashionable company 
I had met at her ladyship's ; but they were much more civil. 
Among the rest was my uncle-in-law's partner, a good looking 
young man, who, from the first, was so particularly attentive to 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 495 

me, that my cousins jokingly called him my lover ; and even 
my aunt sometimes told me, she believed he had a serious at- 
tachment to me ; but I took care not to give him any encour- 
agement, as I had always heard my friend Lady talk of 

the wife of a bourgeois as the most contemptible creature in the 
world. 

The season at last arrived, in which I was told, the town 
would appear in its gayety, a great deal of good company being 
expected at the races. For the races I looked with anxiety, 

for another reason ; my dear Lady was to be here at that 

period. Of this I was informed by a letter from my sister. 
From her ladyship I had not heard for a considerable time, as 
she had been engaged in a round of visits to her acquaintance 
in the country. 

The very morning after her arrival, (for I was on the watch 
to get intelligence of her,) I called at her lodgings. When the 
servant appeared, he seemed doubtful about letting me in ; at 
last he ushered me into a little darkish parlor, where, after 
waiting about half an hour, he brought me word, that his lady 
could not try on the gown I had brought then, but desired me 
to fetch it next day at eleven. I now perceived there had been 
a mistake as to my person ; and telling the fellow, somewhat 
angrily, that I was no mantuamaker, desired him to carry to his 
lady a slip of paper, on which I wrote with a pencil the well- 
known name of Leonora. On his going up stairs, I heard a 
loud peal of laughter above, and soon after he returned with a 
message, that Lady was sorry she was particularly en- 
gaged at present, and could not possibly see me. Think, Sir, 
with what astonishment I heard this message from Hortensia. 
I left the house, I know not whether most ashamed or angry ; 
but afterwards I began to persuade myself, that there might be 

some particular reasons for Lady 's not seeing me at that 

time, which she might explain at meeting ; and I imputed the 
terms of the message to the rudeness or simplicity of the foot- 
man. All that day, and the next, I waited impatiently for some 
note of explanation or inquiry from her ladyship, and was a good 
deal disappointed when I found the second evening arrive, with- 
out having received any such token of her remembrance. I 
went, rather in low spirits, to the play. I had not been long in 

the house, when I saw Lady enter the next box. My 

heart fluttered at the sight ; and I watched her eyes, that I 
might take the first opportunity of presenting myself to her 
notice. I saw them, soon after, turned towards me, and imme- 
diately curtsied, with a significant smile, to my noble friend, who, 
being shortsighted, it would seem, which, however, I had never 
remarked before, stared at me for some moments, without 



496 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

taking notice of my salute, and at last was just putting up a 
glass to her eye, to point it at me, when a lady pulled her by 
the sleeve, and made her take notice of somebody on the op- 
posite side of the house. She never afterwards happened to 
look to that quarter where I was seated. 

Still, however, I was not quite discouraged, and, on an acci- 
dental change of places in our box, contrived to place myself at 
the end of the bench next her ladyship's so that there was only 
a piece of thin board between us. At the end of the act I ven- 
tured to ask her how she did, and to express my happiness at 
seeing her in town ; adding, that I had called the day before, 
but had found her particularly engaged. " Why, yes," said 
she, "Miss Homespun, I am always extremely hurried in town, 
and have time to receive only a very few visits ; but I will be 
glad if you will come some morning and breakfast with me — 
but not to-morrow, for there is a morning concert ; nor next 
day, for I have a musical party at home — In short, you may 
come some morning next week, when the hurry will be over ; 
and, if I am not gone out of town, I will be happy to see you." 
I don't know what answer I should have made ; but she did not 
give me an opportunity ; for a gentleman in a green uniform 
coming into the box, she immediately made room for him to sit 
between us. He, after a broad stare full in my face, turned his 
back my way, and sat in that posture all the rest of the evening. 

I am not so silly, Mr. Mirror, but I can understand the 
meaning of all this. My lady, it seems, is contented to have 
some humble friends in the country whom she does not think 
worthy of her notice in town ; but I am determined to show 
her, that I have a prouder spirit than she imagines, and shall 
not go near her either in town or country. What is more, my 
father shan't vote for her friend at next election, if I can help it. 

What vexes me beyond every thing else, is, that I had been 
often telling my aunt and her daughters of the intimate footing 

I was on with Lady , and what a violent friendship we had 

for each other ; and so, from envy, perhaps, they used to nick- 
name me the countess, and Lady Leonora. Now that they 
have got the story of the mantua-maker and the playhouse, (for 
I was so angry I could not conceal it,) I am ashamed to hear 
the name of a lady of quality mentioned, even if it be only in 
a book from the circulating library. Do write a paper, Sir, 
against pride and haughtiness, and people forgetting their coun- 
try friends and acquaintance, and you will very much oblige, 
Yours, &c. 

Elizabeth Homespun. 

P. S. My uncle's partner, the young gentleman I mentioned 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 497 

above, takes my part when my cousins joke upon intimacies 
with great folks ; I think he is a much genteeler and better 
bred man than I took him for at first. 



[No. 72. Saturday, January 15, 1780.] 
Sunt lacrymae rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt. — VirgiL 

The consideration of death has been always made use of, 
by the moralist and the divine, as a powerful incentive to virtue 
and to piety. From the uncertainty of life, they have endea- 
vored to sink the estimation of its pleasures, and if they could 
not strip the seductions of vice of their present enjoyment, at 
least to load them with the fear of their end. 

Voluptuaries, on the other hand, have, from a similar reflec- 
tion endeavored to enhance the value, and persuade to the en- 
joyment of temporal delights. They have advised us to pluck 
the roses which would otherwise soon wither of themselves, to 
seize the moments which we could not long command, and, 
since time was unavoidably fleeting, to crown its flight with joy- 

Of neither of these persuasives, whether of the moral or the 
licentious, the severe or the gay, have the effects been great. 
Life must necessarily consist of active scenes, which exclude 
from its general tenor the leisure of meditation, and the influ- 
ence of thought. The schemes of the busy will not be checked 
by the uncertainty of their event, nor the amusements of the 
dissipated be either controlled or endeared by the shortness of 
their duration. Even the cell of the anchorite, and the cloister 
of the monk, have their business and their pleasures ; for study 
may become business and abstraction pleasure, when they en- 
gage the mind and occupy the time. A man may even enjoy 
the present, and forget the future, at the very moment in which 
he is writing of the insignificancy of the former, and the impor- 
tance of the latter. 

It were easy to show the wisdom and benignity of Providence 
— Providence, ever wise and benign, in this particular of our 
constitution ; but it would be trite to repeat arguments too obvi- 
ous not to have been often observed, and too just not to have 
been always allowed. 

But, though neither the situation of the world, nor the form- 
ation of our minds, allow the thoughts of futurity or death a 
constant or prevailing effect upon our lives, they may surely 

42* 



498 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

sometimes, not unseasonably, press upon our imagination ; 
even exclusive of their moral or religious use, there is a sym- 
pathetic enjoyment which often makes it not only better, but 
more delightful to go to the house of mourning, than to the 
house of feasting. 

Perhaps I felt it so, when but a few days since, I attended 
the funeral of a young lady, who was torn, in the bloom of 
youth and beauty, from the arms of a father who doated on her, 
of a family by whom she was adored ; I think I would not 
have exchanged my feelings at that time, for all the mirth which 
gayety could inspire, or all the pleasures which luxury could 
bestow. 

Maria was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her form, 
and excellence of her natural disposition, a parent equally in- 
dulgent and attentive had done the fullest justice. To accom- 
plish her person, and to cultivate her mind, every endeavor had 
been used; and they had been attended with that success which 
they commonly meet with, when, not prevented by mistaken 
fondness or untimely vanity. Few young ladies have attracted 
more admiration ; none ever felt it less: with all the charms of 
beauty, and the polish of education, the plainest were not less 
affected, nor the most ignorant less assuming. She died when 
every tongue was eloquent of her virtues, when every hope was 
ripening to reward them. 

It is by such private and domestic distresses, that the softer 
emotions of the heart are most strongly excited. The fall of 
more important personages is commonly distant from our obser- 
vation ; but even where it happens under our immediate notice, 
there is a mixture of other feelings by which our compassion is 
weakened. The eminently great, or extensively useful, leave 
behind them a train of interrupted views, and disappointed ex- 
pectations, by which the distress is complicated beyond the sim- 
plicity of pity. But the death of one, who, like Maria, was to 
shed the influence of her virtues over the age of a father, and 
the childhood of her sisters, presents to us a little view of family 
affliction, which every eye can perceive, and every heart can 
feel. On scenes of public sorrow and national regret, we gaze 
as upon those gallery pictures which strike us with wonder and 
admiration; domestic calamity is like the miniature of a friend, 
which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secret looks and 
solitary enjoyment. 

The last time I saw Maria was in the midst of a crowded 
assembly of the fashionable and the gay, where she fixed all 
eyes by the gracefulness of her motions, and the native dignity 
of her mien ; yet so tempered was that superiority which they 
conferred with gentleness and modesty, that not a murmur was 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 499 

heard, either from the rivalship of beauty, or the envy of homeli- 
ness. From that scene the transition was so violent to the 
hearse and the pall, the grave and the sod, that once or twice 
my imagination turned rebel to my senses : I beheld the objects 
around me as the painting of a dream, and thought of Maria as 
living still. 

I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality. The figure 
of her father bending over the grave of his darling child ; the 
silent suffering composure in which his countenance was fixed ; 
the tears of his attendants, whose grief was light, and capable 
of tears ; these gave me back the truth, and reminded me that 
I should see her no more. There was a flow of sorrow with 
which I suffered myself to be borne along, with a melancholy 
kind of indulgence ; but when her father dropped the cord with 
which he had helped to lay his Maria in the earth, its sound on 
the coffin chilled my heart, and horror for a moment took the 
place of pity ! 

It was but for a moment He looked eagerly into the grave ; 
made one involuntary motion to stop the assistants who were 
throwing the earth into it ; then suddenly recollecting himself, 
clasped his hands together, threw up his eyes to heaven ; and 
then first I saw a few tears drop from them. I gave language 
to all this. It spoke a lesson of faith, and piety, and resignation. 
I went away sorrowful, but my sorrow was neither ungentle nor 
unmanly ; cast on this world a glance rather of pity than of 
enmity ; on the next, a look of humbleness and hope ! 

Such, I am persuaded, will commonly be the effect of scenes 
like that I have described, on minds neither frigid nor unthink- 
ing ; for, feelings like these, the gloom of the ascetic is as little 
susceptible as the levity of the giddy. There needs a certain 
pliancy of mind, which society alone can give, though its vices 
often destroy, to render us capable of that gentle melancholy 
which makes sorrow pleasant, and affliction useful. 

It is not from a melancholy of this sort, that men are prompted 
to the cold unfruitful virtues of monkish solicitude. These are 
often the effects rather of passion secluded than repressed, 
rather of temptation avoided than overcome. The crucifix and 
the rosary, the death's head and the bones, if custom has not 
made them indifferent, wilt rather chill desire than excite virtue; 
but, amidst the warmth of social affection, and of social sym- 
pathy, the heart will feel the weakness, and enjoy the duties of 
humanity. 

Perhaps it will be said, that such situations, and such reflec- 
tions as the foregoing, will only affect minds already too tender, 
and be disregarded by those who need the lessons they impart. 
But this, I apprehend, is to allow too much to the force of habit, 



500 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

and the resistance of prejudice. I will not pretend to assert, 
that rooted principles, and long-established conduct, are sudden- 
ly to be changed by the effects of situation, or the eloquence of 
sentiment; but if it be granted that such change ever took place, 
who shall determine by what imperceptible motive, or accidental 
impression, it was first begun? And, even if the influence of 
such a call to thought can only smother, in its birth, one allure- 
ment to evil, or confirm one wavering purpose to virtue, I shall 
not have unjustly commended that occasional indulgence of 
pensiveness and sorrow, which will thus be rendered not only 
one of the refinements, but one of the improvements of life. 



[No. 101. Tuesday, April 25, 1780.] 

To the Author of the Mirror : 

Sir — In books, whether moral or amusing, there are no pas- 
sages more captivating, both to the writer and the reader, than 
those delicate strokes of sentimental morality, which refer our 
actions to the determination of feeling. In these the poet, the 
novel writer, and the essayist, have always delighted ; you are 
not, therefore, singular, for having dedicated so much of the 
Mirror to sentiment and sensibility. I imagine, however, Sir, 
there is much danger in pushing these qualities too far: the 
rules of our conduct should be founded on a basis more solid, if 
they are to guide us through the various situations of life : but 
the young enthusiast of sentiment and feeling is apt to despise 
those lessons of vulgar virtue and prudence, which would con- 
fine the movements of a soul formed to regulate itself by finer 
impulses. I speak from experience, Mr. Mirror ; with what 
justice you shall judge, when you have heard the little family 
history I am going to relate. 

My niece, Emilia , was left to my care by a brother 

whom I dearly loved, when she was a girl of about ten years 
old. The beauty of her countenance, and the elegance of her 
figure, had already attracted universal notice ; as her mind 
opened, it was found not less worthy of admiration. To the 
sweetest natural disposition, she united uncommon powers both 
of genius and of understanding; these I spared no pains to cul- 
tivate and improve ; and I think I so far succeeded, that, in her 
eighteenth year, Emilia was inferior to few women of her age, 
either in personal attractions or in accomplishments of the mind. 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 501 

My fond hopes (for she was a daughter to me, Mr. Mirror,) 
looked now for the reward of my labor, and I pictured her future 
life as full of happiness as of virtue. 

One feature of her mind was strongly predominant ; a certain 
delicacy and fineness of feeling which she had inherited from 
nature, and which her earliest reading had tended to encourage 
and increase. To this standard she was apt to bring both her 
own actions and the actions of others ; and allowed more to its 
effects, both in praise and blame, than was consistent with either 
justice or expediency. I sometimes endeavored gently to com- 
bat these notions. She was not always logical, but she was 
always eloquent in their defence ; and I found her more con- 
firmed on their side, the more I obliged her to be their ad- 
vocate. I preferred, therefore, being silent on the subject, 
trusting that a little more experience and knowledge of the 
world would necessarily weaken their influence. 

At her age, and with her feelings, it is necessary to have a 
friend : Emilia had found one at a very early period. Harriet 

S was the daughter of a neighbor of my brother's, a few 

years older than my niece. Several branches of their education 
the two young ladies had received together ; in these the supe- 
riority lay much on the side of Emilia. Harriet was nowise 
remarkable for fineness of genius or quickness of parts ; but 
though her acquirements were moderate, she knew how to 
manage them to advantage, and there was often a certain avow- 
al of her inferiority, which conciliated affection the more, as it 
did not claim admiration. Her manners were soft and winning, 
like those of Emilia, her sentiments as delicate and exalted ; 
there seemed, however, less of nature in both. 

Emilia's attachment to this young lady I found every day in- 
crease, till, at last, it so totally engrossed her as rather to dis- 
please me. When together, their attention was confined almost 
entirely to each other; or what politeness forced them to bestow 
upon others, they considered as a tax which it was fair to elude 
as much as possible. The world, a term which they applied 
indiscriminately to almost every one but themselves, they seem- 
ed to feel as much pride as happiness in being secluded from ; 
and its laws of prudence and propriety, they held the invention 
of cold and selfish minds, insensible of the delights of feeling, 
of sentiment, and of friendship. These ideas were, I believe, 
much strengthened by a correspondence that occupied most of 
the hours (not many, indeed,) in which they were separated. 
Against this I ventured to remonstrate in a jocular manner, 
with Emilia; she answered me in a strain so serious, as con- 
vinced me of the danger of so romantic an attachment. Our 
discourse on the subject grew insensibly warm ; Emilia at last 



502 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

burst into tears ; and I apologized for having, I knew not how, 
offended her. From that day forth, though I continued her 
adviser, I found I had ceased to be her friend. 

That office was now Harriet's alone ; the tie only wanted 
some difficulty to rivet it closer, some secret to be entrusted 
with, some distress to alleviate. Of this an opportunity soon 
after presented itself. Harriet became enamored of a young 
gentleman of the name of Marlow, an officer of the dragoons, 
who had come to the country on a visit to her brother, with 
whom he had been acquainted at college. As she inherited 
several thousand pounds, independent of her expectations from 
her father, such a match was a very favorable one for a young 
man who possessed no revenue but his commission. But, for 
that very reason, the consent of the young lady's relations was 
not to be looked for. After some time, therefore, of secret and 
ardent attachment, of which my niece was the confidant, the 
young folks married without it, and trusted to the common re- 
lentings of parental affection, to forgive a fault which could not 
be remedied. But the father of Harriet remained quite inexor- 
able ; nor was his resentment softened even by her husband's 
leaving the army ; a step which, it was hoped, might have miti- 
gated his anger, as he had often declared it principally to arise 
from his daughter's marrying a soldier. 

After some fruitless attempts to reinstate themselves in the 
old gentleman's affections, they took up their residence in a 
provincial town, in a distant part of the kingdom ; where, as 
Harriet described their situation to Emilia, they found every 
wish gratified in the increasing tenderness of one another. 
Emilia, soon after, went to see them in their new abode : her 
description of their happiness, on her return, was warm to a 
degree of rapture. Her visit was repeated on occasion of 
Harriet's lying-in of her first child. This incident was a new 
source of delight to Emilia's friends, and of pleasure to her in 
their society. Harriet, whose recovery was slow, easily pre- 
vailed on her to stay till it was completed. She became a 
member of the family, and it was not without much regret on 
both sides, that she left, at the end of six months, a house from 
which, as she told me, the world was secluded, where sentiment 
regulated the conduct, and happiness rewarded it. All this 
while I was not without alarm, and could not conceal my un- 
easiness from Emilia : I represented the situation in which her 
friend stood, whom prudent people must consider as having, at 
least, made a bold step, if not a blameable one. I was an- 
swered rather angrily, by a warm remonstrance against the 
inhumanity of parents, the unfeelingness of age, and the injus- 
tice of the world. 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 503 

That happiness, which my niece had described as the inmate 
of Harriet's family, was not of long duration. Her husband, 
tired of the inactive scene into which his marriage had cast him, 
grew first discontented at home, and then sought for that plea- 
sure abroad which his own house could not afford him. His 
wife felt this change warmly, and could not restrain herself 
from expressing her feelings. Her complaints grew into re- 
proaches, and riveted her husband's dislike to her society, and 
his relish for the society of others. Emilia was, as usual, the 
confidant to her friend's distress ; it was now increased to a 
lingering illness, which had succeeded the birth of her second 
girl. After informing me of those disagreeable circumstances 
in which her Harriet was situated, Emilia told me she had 
formed the resolution of participating, at least, if she could not 
alleviate, her friend's distress, by going directly to reside in her 
house. Though I had now lost the affections of my niece, she 
had not yet forced me into indifference for her. Against this 
proposal I remonstrated in the strongest manner. You will 
easily guess my arguments ; but Emilia would not allow them 
any force. In vain I urged the ties of duty, of prudence, and 
of character. They only produced an eulogium on generosity, 
on friendship, and on sentiment. I could not so far command 
my temper as to forbear some observations, which my niece 
interpreted into reflections upon her Harriet. She grew warm 
on the subject ; my affection for her would not suffer me to be 
cool. At last, in the enthusiasm of her friendship, she told me 
I had cancelled every bond of relationship between us ; that she 
would instantly leave my house, and return to it no more. She 
left it accordingly, and set out for Harriet's that very morning. 

There, as I learned, she found that lady in a situation truly 
deplorable : her health declined, her husband cruel, and the 
fortune she had brought him wasted among his companions at 
the tavern and the gaming table. The last calamity the fortune 
of Emilia enabled her to relieve; but the two first she could not 
cure, and her friend was fast sinking under them. She was at 
last seized with a disorder which her weak frame was unable to 
resist, and which, her physicians informed Emilia, would soon 
put a period to her life. This intelligence she communicated 
to the husband in a manner suited to wring his heart for the 
treatment he had given his wife. In effect, Marlow was touch- 
ed with that remorse which the consequences of profligate folly 
will sometimes produce in men more weak than wicked. He 
too had been in use to talk of feeling and of sentiment. He 
was willing to be impelled by the passions, though not restrain- 
ed by the principles of virtue, and to taste the pleasures of vice, 
while he thought he abhorred its depravity His conversion was 



504 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

now as violent as sudden. Emilia believed it sincere, because 
confidence was natural to her, and the effects of sudden emotion 
her favorite system. By her means a thorough reunion took 
place between Mr. and Mrs. Marlow ; and the short while the 
latter survived, was passed in that luxury of reconcilement, 
which more than reinstates the injurer in our affection. Har- 
riet died in the arms of her husband ; and, by a solemn adjura- 
tion, left to Emilia the comfort of him, and the care of her 
children. 

There is in the communion of sorrow one of the strongest of 
all connexions ; and the charge which Emilia had received 
from her dying friend of her daughters, necessarily produced 
the freest and most frequent intercourse with their father. 
Debts, which his former course of life had obliged him to con- 
tract, he was unable to pay : and the demands of his creditors 
were the more peremptory, as, by the death of his wife, the 
hopes of any pecuniary assistance from her father were cut off. 
In the extremity of this distress, he communicated it to Emilia. 
Her generosity relieved him from the embarrassment, and gave 
him that further tie which is formed by the gratitude of those we 
oblige. Meanwhile, from the exertions of that generosity, she 
suffered considerable inconvenience. The world was loud, and 
sometimes scurrilous, in its censure of her conduct. I tried 
once more, by a letter written with all the art I was master of, 
to recall her from the labyrinth in which this false sort of virtue 
had involved her. My endeavors were vain. I found that 
sentiment, like religion, had its superstition, and its martyrdom. 
Every hardship she suffered she accounted a trial, every cen- 
sure she endured she considered as a testimony of her virtue. 
At last my poor deluded niece was so entangled in the toils 
which her own imagination, and the art of Marlow, had spread 
for her, that she gave to the dying charge of Harriet the ro- 
mantic interpretation of becoming the wife of her widower, and 
the mother of her children. My heart bleeds, Mr. Mirror, while 
I foresee the consequences ! She will be wretched, with feel- 
ings ill-accommodated to her wretchedness. Her sensibility 
will aggravate that ruin to which it has led her, and the world 
will not even afford their pity to distresses, which the prudent 
may blame, and the selfish may deride. 

Let me warn at least where I cannot remedy. Tell your 
readers this story, Sir. Tell them, there are bounds beyond 
which virtuous feelings cease to be virtue ; that the decisions 
of sentiment are subject to the control of prudence, and the ties 
of friendship subordinate to the obligations of duty. 

I am, &c. 

Leontius. 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 505 

[No. 108. Saturday, May 20, 1780.] 

Ah, vices ! gilded by the rich and gay. — Shenstone. 

If we examine impartially that estimate of pleasure, which 
the higher ranks of society are apt to form, we shall probably be 
surprised to find how little there is in it either of natural feeling 
or real satisfaction. Many a fashionable voluptuary, who has 
not totally blunted his taste or his judgment, will own in the in- 
tervals of recollection, how often he has suffered from the insi- 
pidity or the pain of his enjoyments ; and that, if it were not for 
the fear of being laughed at, it were sometimes worth while, 
even on the score of pleasure, to be virtuous. 

Sir Edward , to whom I had the pleasure of being intro- 
duced at Florence, was a character much beyond that which 
distinguishes the generality of English travellers of fortune. 
His story was known to some of his countrymen who then re- 
sided in Italy ; from one of whom, who could now and then 
talk of something besides pictures and operas, I had a particular 
recital of it. 

He had been first abroad at an early period of life, soon after 
the death of his father had left him master of a very large estate, 
which he had the good fortune to inherit, and all the inclination 
natural to youth to enjoy. Though always sumptuous, however, 
and sometimes, profuse, he was observed never to be ridiculous 
in his expenses ; and though he was now and then talked of as 
a man of pleasure and dissipation, he always left behind more 
instances of beneficence than of irregularity. For that respect 
and esteem in which his character, amidst all his little errors, 
was generally held, he was supposed a good deal indebted to 
the society of a gentleman, who had been his companion at the 
university, and now attended him rather as a friend than a tutor. 
This gentleman was, unfortunately, seized at Marseilles with a 
lingering disorder, for which he was under the necessity of 
taking a sea voyage, leaving Sir Edward to prosecute the 
remaining part of his intended tour alone. 

Descending into one of the valleys of Piedmont, where, not- 
withstanding the ruggedness of the road, Sir Edward, with a 
prejudice natural to his country, preferred the conveyance of an 
English hunter to that of an Italian mule, his horse unluckily 
made a false step, and fell with his rider to the ground, from 
which Sir Edward was lifted by his servants with scarce any 
signs of life. They conveyed him on a litter to the nearest 

43 



506 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

house, which happened to be the dwelling of a peasant rather 
above the common rank, before whose door some of his neigh- 
bors were assembled at a scene of rural merriment, when the 
train of Sir Edward brought up their master in the condition I 
have described. The compassion natural to his situation was 
excited in all ; but the owner of the mansion, whose name was 
Venoni, was particularly moved with it. He applied himself 
immediately to the care of the stranger, and, with the assistance 
of his daughter, who had left the dance she was engaged in, with 
great marks of agitation, soon restored Sir Edward to sense and 
life. Venoni possessed some little skill in surgery, and his 
daughter produced a book of recipes in medicine. Sir Ed- 
ward, after being blooded, was put to bed, and tended with 
every possible care by his host and his family. A considerable 
degree of fever was the consequence of his accident ; but after 
some days it abated ; and, in little more than a week, he was 
able to join in the society of Venoni and his daughter. 

He could not help expressing some surprise at the appear- 
ance of refinement in the conversation of the latter, much be- 
yond what her situation seemed likely to confer. Her father 
accounted for it. She had received her education in the house 
of a lady, who happened to pass through the valley, and to take 
shelter in Venoni's cottage (for his house was but a better sort 
of cottage) the night of her birth. "When her mother died,'* 
said he, " the Signora, whose name, at her desire, we had given 
the child, took her home to her own house : there she was- 
taught many things, of which there is no need here, yet she is 
not so proud of her learning as to wish to leave her father 
in his old age ; and I hope soon to have her settled near me 
for life." 

But Sir Edward had now an opportunity of knowing Louisa 
better than from the description of her father. Music and paint- 
ing, in both of which arts she was a tolerable proficient, Sir 
Edward had studied with success. Louisa felt a sort of plea- 
sure from her drawings, which they had never given her before, 
when they were praised by Sir Edward; and the family concerts 
of Venoni were very different from what they had formerly been,, 
when once his guest was so far recovered as to be able to join 
in them. The flute of Venoni excelled all the other music of 
the valley ; his daughter's lute was much beyond it ; Sir Ed- 
ward's violin was finer than either. But his conversation with 
Louisa — it was that of a superior order of beings ! — science, 
taste, sentiment ! — it was long since Louisa had heard these 
sounds ; amidst the ignorance of the valley, it was luxury to 
hear them ; from Sir Edward, who was one of the most en- 
gaging figures I ever saw, they were doubly delightful. In his 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 507 

countenance, there was also an expression animated and inter- 
esting ; his sickness had overcome somewhat of the first, but 
greatly added to the power of the latter. 

Louisa's was no less captivating — and Sir Edward had not 
seen it so long without emotion. During his illness he thought 
this emotion but gratitude ; and, when it first grew warmer, he 
checked it, from the thought of her situation, and of the debt he 
owed her. But the struggle was too ineffectual to overcome ; 
and, of consequence, increased his passion. There was but 
one way in which the pride of Sir Edward allowed of its being 
gratified. He sometimes thought of this as a base and un- 
worthy one ; but he was the fool of words which he had often 
despised, the slave of manners he had often condemned. He 
at last compromised matters with himself; he resolved, if he 
could, to think no more of Louisa ; at any rate, to think no 
more of the ties of gratitude, or the restraints of virtue. 

Louisa, who trusted to both, now communicated to Sir Ed- 
ward an important secret. It was at the close of a piece of 
music, which they had been playing in the absence of her 
father. She took up her lute, and touched a little wild, melan- 
choly air, which she had composed to the memory of her mo- 
ther. "That," said she, "nobody ever heard except my father ; 
I play it sometimes when I am alone, and in low spirits. I 
•don't know how I came to think of it now ; yet I have some 
reason to be sad." Sir Edward pressed to know the cause ; 
after some hesitation she told it all. Her father had fixed on 
the son cf a neighbor, rich in possessions, but rude in manners, 
for a husband. Against this match, she had always protested 
as strongly, as a sense of duty, and the mildness of her nature, 
would allow ; but Venoni was obstinately bent on the match, 
and she was wretched from the thoughts of it. — " To marry, 
when one cannot love, — to marry such a man, Sir Edward !" — 
It was an opportunity beyond his power of resistance. Sir Ed- 
ward pressed her hand ; said it would be profanation to think 
of such a marriage ; praised her beauty, extolled her virtues : 
and concluded by swearing that he adored her. She heard him 
with unsuspecting pleasure, which her blushes could ill conceal. 
Sir Edward improved the favorable moment ; talked of the ar- 
dency of his passion, the insignificancy of ceremonies and forms, 
the inefficacy of legal engagements, the eternal duration of those 
dictated by love ; and, in fine, urged her going off with him, to 
crown both their days with happiness. Louisa started at that 
proposal. She would have reproached him, but her heart was 
not made for it ; she could only weep. 

They were interrupted by the arrival of her father with his 
intended son-in-law. He was just such a man as Louisa had 



508 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

represented him — coarse, vulgar, and ignorant. But Venom, 
though much above his neighbors in every thing but riches, 
looked upon him as poorer men often look on the wealthy, and 
discovered none of his imperfections. He took his daughter 
aside, told her he had brought her future husband, and that he 
intended they should be married in a week at farthest. 

Next morning Louisa was indisposed, and kept her chamber. 
Sir Edward was now perfectly recovered. He was engaged to 
go out with Venoni ; but, before his departure, he took up his 
violin, and touched a few plaintive notes on it. They were 
heard by Louisa. 

In the evening she wandered forth to indulge her sorrows 
alone. She had reached a sequestered spot, where some pop- 
lars formed a thicket, on the banks of a little stream that water- 
ed the valley. A nightingale was perched on one of them, and 
had already begun his accustomed song. Louisa sat down on 
a withered stump leaning her cheek upon her hand. After a 
little while, the bird was scared from its perch, and flitted from 
the thicket. Louisa rose from the ground, and burst into tears ! 
She turned — and beheld Sir Edward. His countenance had 
much of its former languor ; and, when he took her hand, he 
cast on the earth a melancholy look, and seemed unable to 
speak his feelings. " Are you not well. Sir Edward ?" said 
Louisa, with a voice faint and broken. " I am ill indeed," said 
he, " but my illness is of the mind. Louisa cannot cure me of 
that. I am wretched, but I deserve to be so. I have broken 
every law of hospitality, and every obligation of gratitude. I 
have dared to wish for happiness, and to speak what I wished, 
though it wounded the heart of my dearest benefactress — but I 
will make a severe expiation. This moment I leave you Lou- 
isa ! I go to be wretched ; but you may be happy, happy in 
your duty to a father ; happy, it may be, in the arms of a hus- 
band, whom the possession of such a wife may teach refinement 
and sensibility. I go to my native country, to hurry through 
scenes of irksome business, or tasteless amusement ; that I 
may, if possible, procure a sort of half-oblivion of that happiness 
which I have left behind, a listless endurance of that life which 
I once dreamed might be made delightful with Louisa." 

Tears were the only answer she could give. Sir Edward's 
servants appeared with a carriage, ready for his departure. He 
took from his pocket two pictures : one he had drawn of Louisa, 
he fastened round his neck, and kissing it with rapture, hid it 
in his bosom. The other he held out in a hesitating manner. 
" This," said he, " if Louisa will except of it, may sometimes 
put her in mind of him who once offended, who can never cease 
to adore her. She may look on it, perhaps, after the original 



PAPERS PROM THE MIRROR. 509 

is no more ; when this heart shall have forgot to love, and cease 
to be wretched." 

Louisa was at first overcome. Her face was first pale as 
death ; then suddenly it was crossed with a crimson blush. 
" Oh ! Sir Edward !" said she, " What — what would you have 
me do 1 n He eagerly seized her hand, and led her, reluctant, 
to the carriage. They entered it and driving off with furious 
speed, were soon out of sight of those hills which pastured the 
flocks of the unfortunate Venoni. 



[No. 109. Tuesday, May 23, 1780.] 
The story of Louisa Venoni continued. 

The virtue of Louisa was vanquished, but her sense of virtue 
was not overcome. Neither the vows of eternal fidelity of her 
seducer, nor the constant and respectful attention which he paid 
her during a hurried journey to England, could allay that an- 
guish which she suffered at the recollection of her past, and the 
thoughts of her present situation. Sir Edward felt strongly the 
power of her beauty, and of her grief. His heart was not made 
for that part which, it is probable, he thought it could have per- 
formed : it was still subject to remorse, to compassion, and to 
love. These emotions, perhaps, he might soon have overcome, 
had they been met by vulgar violence, or reproaches ; but the 
quiet and unupbraiding sorrows of Louisa, nourished those feel- 
ings of tenderness and attachment. She never mentioned her 
wrongs in words ; sometimes a few starting tears would speak 
them ; and when time had given her a little more composure, 
her lute discoursed melancholy music. 

On their arrival in England, Sir Edward carried Louisa to 
his seat in the country. There she was treated with all the 
observance of a wife ; and had she chosen it, might have com- 
manded more than the ordinary splendor of one. But she 
would not allow the indulgence of Sir Edward to blazon with 
equipage and show that state which she wished always to hide, 
and, if possible, forget. Her books and her music were her 
only pleasures, if pleasures they could be called, that served 
but to alleviate misery, and to blunt, for a while, the pangs of 
contrition. 

These were deeply aggravated by the recollection of her fa- 
ther ; a father left in his age to feel his own misfortunes and his 

43* 



510 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

daughter's disgrace. Sir Edward was to generous not to think 
of providing for Venoni. He meant to make some atonement 
for the injury he had done him, by that cruel bounty which is 
reparation only to the base, but to the honest is insult. He 
had not, however, an opportunity of accomplishing his purpose. 
He learned that Venoni, soon after his daughter's elopement, 
removed from his former place of residence, and, as his neigh- 
bors reported, had died in one of the villages of Savoy. His 
daughter felt this with anguish the most poignant, and her af- 
fliction, for a while, refused consolation. Sir Edward's whole 
tenderness and attention were called forth to mitigate her grief; 
and, after its first transports had subsided, he carried her to 
London, in hopes that objects new to her, and commonly at- 
tractive to all, might contribute to remove it. 

With a man possessed of feelings like Sir Edward's the af- 
fliction of Louisa gave a certain respect to his attentions. He 
hired her a house separate from his own, and treated her with 
all the delicacy of the purest attachment. But his solicitude to 
comfort and amuse her was not attended with success. She 
felt all the horrors of that guilt ; which she now considered as 
not only the ruin of herself, but the murderer of her father. 

In London, Sir Edward found his sister, who had married a 
man of great fortune, and high fashion. He had married her, 
because she was a fine woman, and admired by fine men ; she 
had married him, because he was the wealthiest of her suitors. 
They lived, as is common to people in such a situation, neces- 
sitous with a princely revenue, and very wretched amidst per- 
petual gayety. This scene was so foreign from the idea Sir 
Edward had formed of the reception his country and friends 
were to afford him, that he found a constant source of disgust 
in the society of his equals. In their conversation fantastic, 
not refined, their ideas were frivolous, and their knowledge 
shallow ; and with all the pride of birth and insolence of station, 
their principles were mean, and their minds ignoble. In their 
pretended attachments, he discovered only designs of selfish- 
ness : and their pleasures, he experienced, were as fallacious 
as their friendships. In the society of Louisa he found sensi- 
bility and truth ; hers was the only heart that seemed interested 
in his welfare ; she saw the return of virtue in Sir Edward, and 
felt the friendship which he showed her. Sometimes when she 
perceived him sorrowful, her lute would leave its melancholy 
for more lively airs, and her countenance assume a gayety it 
was not formed to wear. But her heart was breaking with that 
anguish which her generosity endeavored to conceal from him ; 
her frame, too delicate for the struggle with her feelings, seemed 
to yield to their force ; her rest forsook her ; the color faded in 



PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 511 

her cheek : the lustre of her eyes grew dim. Sir Edward saw 
those symptoms of decay with the deepest remorse. Often did 
he curse those false ideas of pleasure, which had led him to 
consider the ruin of an artless girl, who loved and trusted him, 
as an object which it was luxury to attain, and pride to accom- 
plish. Often did he wish to blot out from his life a few guilty 
months, to be again restored to an opportunity of giving happi- 
ness to that family, whose unsuspecting kindness he had repaid 
with the treachery of a robber, and the cruelty of an assassin. 

One evening, while he sat in a little parlor with Louisa, his 
mind alternately agitated and softened with this impression, a 
hand organ of a remarkably sweet tone, was heard in the street. 
Louisa laid aside her lute and listened ; the airs it played were 
those of her native country ; and a few tears, which she endeav- 
ored to hide, stole from her on hearing them. Sir Edward 
ordered a servant to fetch the organist into the room : he was 
brought in accordingly, and seated at the door of the apartment. 

He played one or two sprightly tunes, to which Louisa had 
often danced in her infancy ; she gave herself up to the recol- 
lection, and her tears flowed without control. Suddenly the 
musician, changing the stop, introduced a little melancholy air 
of a wild and plaintive kind. Louisa started from her seat, and 
rushed up to the stranger. He threw off a tattered coat, and 
black patch. It was her father ! — She would have sprung to 
embrace him ; he turned aside for a few moments, and would 
not receive her into his arms. But Nature at last overcame 
his resentment ; he burst into tears, and pressed to his bosom 
his long lost daughter. 

Sir Edward stood fixed in astonishment and confusion. — " I 
come not to upbraid you," said Venoni ; " I am a poor, weak, 
old man, unable for upbraidings ; I am come but to find my 
child, to forgive her and to die ! When you saw us first, Sir 
Edward, we were not thus. You found us virtuous and happy ; 
we danced and we sung, and there was not a sad heart in the 
valley where we dwelt. Yet we left our dancing, our songs, 
and our cheerfulness ; you were distressed, and we pitied you. 
Since that day the pipe has never been heard in Venoni's fields ; 
grief and sickness have almost brought him to the grave ; and 
his neighbors, who loved and pitied him, have been cheerful no. 
more. Yet, methinks though you robbed us of happiness, you 
are not happy ; else why that dejected look, which, amidst all 
the grandeur around you, I saw you wear, and those tears which, 
under all the gaudiness of her apparel, I saw that poor deluded 
girl shed?" — " But she shall shed no more," cried Sir Edward; 
" you shall be happy, and I shall be just. Forgive, my vener- 
able friend, the injuries which I have done thee ; forgive me, 



512 PAPERS FROM THE MIRROR. 

my Louisa, for rating your excellence at a price so mean. I 
have seen those high-born females to which my rank might 
have allied me ; I am ashamed of their vices, and sick of their 
follies. Profligate in their hearts, amidst affected purity they 
are slaves to pleasure, without the sincerity of passion ; and, 
with the name of honor, are insensible to the feelings of virtue. 
You, my Louisa ! — but I will not call up recollections that 
might render me less worthy of your future esteem — Continue 
to love your Edward ; but a few hours, and you shall add the 
title to the affections of a wife ; let the care and tenderness of 
a husband bring back its peace to your mind, and its bloom to 
your cheek. We will leave for a while the wonder and the 
envy of the fashionable circle here. We will restore your father 
to his native home ; under that roof I shall once more be hap- 
py ; happy without alloy, because I shall deserve my happiness. 
Again shall the pipe and the dance gladden the valley and 
innocence and peace beam on the cottage of Yenoni I" 



THE END. 



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